


Dollars to Donuts

by ktula



Series: well-glazed [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (will provide a chapter warning for this as well), Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Inheritance, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Sex Toys, Sharing a Bed, Soft Kylux, Virgin!Kylo, experienced!Hux, gay!Kylo, light and consensual forays in BDSM territory, queer!Hux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-03-29 19:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 183,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13933596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/pseuds/ktula
Summary: Kylo just wants to ask Hux out on a date. That's all he wants. Sure, he's been closeted since he figured out he was gay, and he's never gone on a date with anybody before, and also Hux intimidates the hell out of him--but how bad could it possibly be?(It could be 'proposing a celibate fake marriage to the guy you've been in love with for two years so he can get his inheritance' bad, Kylo. That's how bad it could be.)





	1. an attempt at a favour resulting in a drastic overcommittal to said favour

**Author's Note:**

> To get this out of the way--chapter warnings.
> 
> One (1) usage of the word 'c--t', and if you look in the list of characters, I think you can figure out who it applies to.
> 
> \-----
> 
> So, @sterne sent me this prompt, like, literally over six months ago:
> 
> Fluffy Kylux one shot prompt: they're coworkers - maybe in a fluffy place like a coffee shop - and have secretly been crushing on one another for a while. One of them gets the news that he's in line for a big inheritance, with one catch: he has to be married to receive it.
> 
> Here you go, @sterne. Three hundred years later, here you go.
> 
> This fic also owes a lot to @splintered_star, who helped me with my numerous ethical quandaries, pixiegrl on tumblr, who always has questions about headcanons, my husband, who makes sure I have time and space to write, and literally everybody on my twitter feed who got excited about snippets I posted, encouraged me to keep going, got pumped about reading the fic, and in general, just cheered me right the hell on when I felt like I'd bitten off way more than what I could chew.
> 
> And, as always, to @deadsy, who betas my work, reads every single word I write, supports the hell out of me, and is generally just the best girlfriend that I could ever possibly hope for.

Kylo frowns at his phone. Rey’s text is completely indecipherable to him—it’s all emojis, and none of them make any sense in context, except for maybe the confetti. How the hell is he supposed to respond when the message is incomprehensible?

(One of the emojis is an eggplant. He has no idea what the fuck the eggplant has to do with anything.)

_Kylo: Thanks._

_Rey: u r gonna do great_

_Rey: update meeeeeeeeeeeeee_

_Rey: asp_

The script he wrote out is sitting on the bathroom counter. Green ink, on a piece of paper neatly torn from the back of his current journal. He’s simplified the script as much as possible, but he still doesn’t know if it’s enough. _Hi Hux, I like you. Will you go out with me?_

Short, sweet, and to the point. He folds it and puts it in his pocket.

He hopes it’s enough.

 

He’s halfway to work, standing on the bus because of course there’s nowhere to sit, when another possibility dawns on him.

_Kylo: What if he’s seeing somebody already?_

_Rey: KYLO_

_Rey: he’s not_

_Rey: u’d kno_

_Kylo: But I wouldn’t. We don’t talk._

_Rey: nobody talks 2 him._

_Rey: nobody is dating him._

_Rey: just u after this_

Kylo touches his pants pocket, makes sure that the piece of paper is still in there. It is. He’s just gonna—he’s just gonna go to work. He’s gonna pull Hux aside at break, and he’s gonna ask him. And then it’s—it’s gonna be fine. Everything’s gonna be fine.

(He would know, somehow, if Hux was dating someone—wouldn’t he? They work at the same coffeeshop, they go to the same university, they’re majoring in the same fucking subject—Kylo would _have_ to know if Hux was already dating someone. He would have to.)

_Kylo: I can’t do this._

_Rey: it’s been years_

_Rey: I was a baby when u got a crush on him_

_Kylo: You were ten._

_Rey: A BABY_

_Rey: just do it_

_Rey: ask him out_

_Kylo: What if he says no?_

_Rey: then u can call me after school and cry about it_

_Kylo: I wouldn’t cry about it, Rey._

Except he might, is the thing.

He actually might.

 

Kylo doesn’t even make it two steps into the coffeeshop before he’s completely floored, so gay for Hux that he feels like there’s a neon sign flashing above his head proclaiming it to everyone. Hux is dressed the exact same as he always is—black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled back above his elbows, crisp dress pants, blindingly white apron with the Resistance logo on the upper left of his chest and the small rainbow flag pinned just above it—and he’s so stunningly good-looking that Kylo ducks his head as he goes to the back so he doesn’t have to talk, because he’s pretty sure his voice will crack if he does.

Hux sees him come in anyways. “You’re late,” he says as Kylo heads into the back.

Kylo’s ears start burning immediately. He’s already dead. His shift hasn’t even started yet, Hux only looked at him for point two five of a second, and there’s no way Kylo’s going to be able to even start his shift, much less finish it, much less _ask Hux out in the middle of it_ , holy fuck.

His hands are shaking as he does up his apron. He’s only got one pin on it—the same _ally_ pin he’s been wearing since his first day here. He swore he was gonna change it to something more—relevant—once this pin fell off, or broke, or something, but it’s hung on for two years so far, so Kylo’s just gonna ride it out until the pin breaks, and choose a more accurate pin then, because otherwise it’s gonna be a Thing, and he just wants it not to be a Thing, he just wants to date Hux, he just wants—

“Hey,” Poe says.

Kylo looks up, fingers hesitating on the strings of his apron. Poe looks frazzled. He’s leaning against the office desk with papers in one hand, a notebook in the other, his phone balanced on top of both, and he’s clearly stressed out.

“There’s, uh,” Poe says. “No way I can convince you to extend your notice a couple weeks for me, huh?”

Kylo shakes his head. “Can’t, sorry. Summer classes start up on campus right away, and I’ve got no availability once they do, it’s brutal.”

Poe nods. “Yeah, of course, buddy. Figured I’d ask.” He looks back down at the papers again. “ _Kriff._ Well, if you know anybody looking for a job, let me know—I’m gonna be hiring a couple people, I guess.”

“I wasn’t working _that_ many shifts,” Kylo says.

“S’not just you,” Poe replies. “Hux quit too.”

Kylo’s stomach twists. “Oh,” he says.

 

It explains a lot, is the thing. Like—the absurdly good mood that Hux has been in all week, where he’s actually smiling at customers occasionally. The arch look he’s been giving them when they flirt with him instead of the usual stony glare. The part where Kylo fumbles a cup that Hux gives him, and instead of telling him to _watch it, Ren_ , Hux just raises one perfect eyebrow and says nothing.

(Kylo screws up a perfectly normal frappuccino order, and all Hux says to the customer is “Don’t mind Kylo, he’s new here—aren’t you, Kylo?” and Kylo stammers his way through his response and he _does_ look new even though he’s worked here for a couple years now, it’s a fucking mess.)

Kylo’s gonna ask Hux out during his break anyways, just like he planned—but when he goes to the back room, hand tucked into his pocket so that he can feel the script underneath his fingertips, he loses his nerve almost immediately.

“Hi, Hux,” he says. His ears are already burning. He can’t do this. There’s no fucking way. He can’t even say the next line in the script, because _I like you_ seems horrifically trite at this point, and Hux is gonna open his mouth and say something awful and—

“Ren,” Hux says coolly. He’s sitting on the very top step of the ladder, the rung that says _this is not a step_ , ostensibly cleaning the backroom, but he’s got his phone in his hands and he’s probably just screwing around, the same as the rest of them do when they need a break from customers for a few minutes.

“You’re in a good mood,” Kylo says. It’s completely the wrong thing to say, and he wants to retract it immediately.

“Course I am,” Hux says. “I’m finally getting the hell out of this cesspool.”

“T-the coffee shop?” Kylo says, gears in his brain frantically grinding as he tries to figure out how to steer the conversation back to his script. “Poe had mentioned you’d quit, yeah, I bet it’ll be weird not working here—”

“Nah,” Hux says, gracefully descending the ladder without even holding onto the shelves. “I’ll be in a new city, so it won’t matter.” He shoulders past Kylo, unlocks the lock on his locker and puts his phone back inside it, then locks the lock again. Heads back out to the front without so much as a backward glance.

Kylo stands in the back room staring at the shelves, fingertips touching the script folded up in his pocket. _Hi Hux. I like you. Will you go out with me? Hi Hux. I like you. Will you go out with me?_

He’s still standing there when he hears Poe call his name a few minutes later. Yanks the script out of his pocket, crumples it up, and tosses it in the trash.

Goes back for it immediately, smooths it out, and puts it back in his pocket.

He’ll just put it in the shoebox in his closet with all the other failed attempts to ask Hux out.

_Fuck._

 

“Hey, buddy,” Poe says.

“I swear I’m gonna check the stock in a minute,” Kylo says.

“No, no, not you,” Poe says. “Hux.”

“Dameron,” Hux says warmly.

Kylo just about drops the drink he’s making, because he has never once, in the entire time he’s worked here, seen Hux respond to Poe with anything but _not your buddy_.

“Your phone is going nuts in your locker,” Poe says.

Hux’s brow furrows ever so slightly—so slightly that Kylo second-guesses having noticed it at all—and then smooths out, and Hux says, “Oh, thanks for letting me know. I’ll, uh. Take my break now, get that sorted out.”

Poe reaches out to touch Hux’s elbow as Hux heads toward the back, but Hux shifts his body slightly, avoids any contact.

Kylo watches him go.

 

Hux doesn’t come back. Kylo figures he’s only going to be a couple minutes—but it’s five minutes, and then it’s ten minutes, and then it’s fifteen.

“Aren’t you, uh, concerned?” Kylo asks Poe.

Poe shrugs. “He’ll be back when he’s back. And we’re not that busy up here anyways.”

(Seventeen minutes. Twenty-three minutes. Not that Kylo is counting.)

It’s true, though, they aren’t _that_ busy. So Kylo takes the next couple of spare minutes he has to quickly duck into the back to go to the bathroom—and then bypasses the bathroom completely when he realizes that Hux isn’t sitting at the back desk. Kylo checks in by the shelves—there’s a quiet spot right in the very back corner where you can’t be seen from the doorway, and he’s used it a couple times when he’s needed to, when he couldn’t function, when everything was way too overwhelming—but Hux isn’t there either.

(Hux wouldn’t need something like that, anyway.)

Kylo takes one last look in the back room, and notices that the garbage can from the office desk is propping the back door open. Kylo slips out the back, takes one look, and says something stupid.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

Hux doesn’t smile or look up, just takes another drag on the cigarette and exhales an unsteady stream of smoke. His face is pale, splotched with red, and his eyes are red, and—oh, oh fuck, Kylo is a fucking idiot who should have gone right back up front instead of coming back here, because he didn’t even know Hux was capable of—of having feelings, and—

“Are you okay?” Kylo asks.

Hux laughs, completely without humour. “Of course not, you fucking idiot.” He takes another drag on the cigarette, lights the next one off the one he’s holding. “You _would_ ask that.”

“Look, I just—” _I like you, Hux._ “—had a question, I’ll come back later, I just—”

“Ask,” Hux says.

Kylo swallows. He can’t, though, is the thing. Not now. Not when Hux looks like this. Not when Hux has been—

“When’s your last day?” Kylo blurts out.

He can tell it’s the worst thing to have asked immediately, because Hux inhales—and then exhales in something that’s almost like a sob.

“Never,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll have to—fuck, I’ll have to rescind my notice—Poe’ll be happy, the fucker, he didn’t want me to go anyway—”

“I—” Kylo starts—and then stops, and then tries to start again—but then all the colour drains out of Hux’s face at once.

Hux drops his cigarette, his hand coming up to cover his face. “Oh fuck,” he says, muffled. “I gave up my fucking _apartment_ , I don’t have anywhere to fucking _live_ —I’m not—I can’t—” He inhales heavily again, voice hitching.

Kylo looks behind him, as though—there’s going to be somebody else there, as though Poe’s going to come and bail him out of this, except there is no getting out of this because it’s an absolute disaster, he just wanted another chance at asking Hux out, and now he’s right in the middle of—the middle of whatever the fuck this is, with Hux falling to pieces in front of him when he was supposed to be invulnerable—

“That fucking _cunt_ ,” Hux says, in a voice that would be vicious if he hadn’t started crying again. “All of my fucking money, and he’s just—” He gasps, coughs, wipes his hand across his face. “My entire fucking inheritance, and I have to be—have to be _married_ to get it—”

Kylo swallows. He can feel his ears burning. He’s dying of second-hand embarrassment for Hux, and he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to make any of this stop—an offer to talk about it seems ridiculous, and he’s not physically approaching Hux because if Hux didn’t want Poe to touch his elbow, there’s no way he wants a hug from Kylo, and Kylo would die if he had to be that physically close to Hux anyway—

(He’s still trying to process the words Hux said, still trying to figure out what the fuck this _means_ , if Hux can’t get his inheritance because he’s not married—if he can’t leave because he’s got no money—if he’s got nowhere to live because he’s given up his apartment—)

Hux is shaking as he slowly sits down on the ground.

All Kylo can think is that he’s never seen Hux sit on the ground before, and here he is, in his work clothes, perfectly pressed and clean and sitting down on the ground in the alley with his head buried in his hands.

The words come out of Kylo’s mouth before he’s even thought them through. “Can I, like, help? Somehow?”

Hux looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Ren?”

“Yeah?” Kylo asks, hope rising in his chest.

“Fuck off.”

 

_Kylo: FUCK_

_Rey: oh no_

_Kylo: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK_

_Rey: gimme a sec I’m calling_

“Hey, Kylo,” Rey says. Her voice is all quiet, which means she’s probably jammed in somewhere where she’s not supposed to be, which usually means—

“Fuck, you’re still in school,” Kylo says. He runs his hand back through his hair, sniffs. “I’ll call back later.” God, he feels like shit right now. His stomach hurts and his head hurts and he can’t stop thinking about how fucking— _broken_ Hux looked today, and it’s freaking him the hell out.

“No, no, no,” she says. “Finn’s taking notes for me, it’s just social studies, I don’t give a—I don’t care. Are you okay?”

“No,” he says. “It’s fine, I just—” He sighs heavily. “Hux was really upset.”

“After you asked him out?”

“No, fuck,” Kylo says. He takes a deep breath, tries again. “I didn’t—I didn’t ask him, because there was this whole—thing. With this phone call.” He outlines everything best as he can for Rey—skipping over the parts where Hux was having a breakdown in the alley, because he doesn’t even like _thinking_ about those parts, and can’t actually fathom opening his mouth and telling another human being, even if it is his sister, that he’s seen Hux like that. “And he, uh. Told me to fuck off, and then didn’t come back to work, so—so that’s where we’re at now, and I don’t know when his last day is either, so I guess that’s just—I guess that’s just it.”

He wishes, though—he wishes there was a way to ask Hux about it again. He knows how it probably looked to Hux—like Kylo was just blurting something out to try and get out of the situation, like Kylo was just trying to escape—but he meant it, he actually meant it, he would—

“—still see him at school, at least,” Rey says.

“Yeah,” Kylo agrees. “I’ll still see him at school.” He thinks about that for a minute. “Shit,” he says. “I’ll still see him at school.”

“That’s what I said,” Rey says.

“Thanks, Rey,” he says. “Head back to class, have a good day.” He hangs up before he loses his nerve, reaches under his pillow for his journal, and starts writing.

 

Kylo waits until the next day to enact his plan. It’s really stupid, is the thing. And Kylo knows it’s stupid the entire time he’s doing it.

He knows it’s stupid when he digs his button-up shirt out of the hamper and shakes it out and puts it back on. He knows it’s stupid the entire twenty five minutes it takes him to tie his tie. He knows it’s stupid when he tries on every pair of dress pants he owns (two) and absolutely neither of them fit so he ends up having to wear jeans and he looks ridiculous, he looks completely ridiculous, all arms and legs and he wishes he had, like—a vest, or a jacket, or something to distract from the part where he looks really terrible in dress clothes, which is why he never wears them.

The stupidity of the entire thing has started to sink in by the time Kylo gets off the bus, but it doesn’t matter, because at this point, he’s committed. He’s fucking committed, and he’s just going to—he’s just going to take the flowers he bought Hux on the way over, and he’s going to find Hux’s studio space, and they’re going to—they’re going to talk. Kylo is going to do it right this time.

(He balks at the entrance to the art building, because he really, really doesn’t want to be seen taking flowers to Hux—so he shrugs off his coat, drapes them over the flowers, and carries the entire bundle into the building that way, holding it against his shoulder. It’s not like it’s weird to carry bundles of stuff into the art department. It could be anything. It doesn’t _have_ to be flowers.)

The grad students have their offices tucked away in a separate wing from the one Kylo’s in all the time. He’s never even been in there, has no idea where he’s going, and the map that’s mounted on the entrance to the wing really doesn’t do shit for him, because it’s not properly labelled—

“Undergrad studio is back the other way,” a woman says, bored. She looks him up and down, unimpressed. “Do you need directions?”

“I’m, uh. Looking for Hux’s studio space,” Kylo says. He grins at her, lopsided and crooked, and it changes nothing about the look on her face.

“Are those for him?”

Kylo looks where she’s looking—and _fuck_ , the jacket has slipped off the flowers and they’re partially crushed from where some jackass had bumped into him on the bus and he hadn’t been able to catch his footing in time, and he realizes how he looks—hair all messy and dress shirt wrinkled, tie crooked and jeans worn, and one of his shoes is—hell, one of his shoes is untied. He looks up at her, and she actually stares down her nose at him even though she’s shorter.

“It’s just—stuff,” Kylo says, fumbling a little, and shifting the bundle against his chest, wishing that he’d made an effort to conceal them better.

“It’s _flowers_ ,” she says, before a smirk crosses her face. “You honestly brought Hux flowers?”

“I—”

“Oh, he’ll _love_ that,” she says. “Down the hall. Right, and then right again, and it’s on your left.”

“Thank you,” Kylo says. He shifts the flowers again, pulls the jacket back over them to disguise them. They’re slightly crushed in a few places, but it’s tolerable, it’s still tolerable—and anyway, he’ll have a moment to fix them before entering Hux’s studio.

“Flowers,” she says as he starts down the hall. “ _Honestly._ ”

 

The studio doors are all labelled—the artist’s name, and in some cases, two artist’s names for people who have to share. Kylo just about misses Hux’s the first time around—unlike the other ones, there’s no show announcement on the front door, there’s no large sign with his name on it, there’s no whiteboard for people to leave messages, and there’s nothing pinned or attached to the door in any way.

(Other people’s doors are open, and he can see the other grad students working, or chatting. A couple of them have furniture in their studios—old ratty couches, or comfortable chairs. There’s a woman posing nude in one of the rooms, the door cranked wide open so that anyone can see, and Kylo looks away quickly, ears burning.)

The label that’s been slid into the placard is printed neatly on paper, rather than the same plastic, professionally done one that’s on everyone else’s doors.

_A. Hux._

Okay then. Kylo takes a deep breath, tries to focus. He pulls out the script that’s in his pocket, unfolds it with the hand that isn’t balancing the flowers, and looks at it again.

The first thing in the script is to knock on the door, so that’s what Kylo does.

Silence.

(He can hear the murmur of chatter down the hall shift, somehow, and he wonders if people are watching him, if people are quieter now because they’ve heard the knock. He’s not going to turn around and look, because he doesn’t want to know if people are looking. He doesn’t want to know.)

He knocks again. Stands there as the weight of all of his terrible decisions crashes down on him—he should have worn different clothes, different shoes, styled his hair differently. He should have bought different flowers, or not brought any flowers at all, or brought a bottle of wine or something. He should have stayed the hell home and not done any of this at all, except he can’t stop thinking about how fucking _devastated_ Hux had looked in the alley, and Kylo can—Kylo can fix this for him, Kylo can make it better, if he’s gonna do one fucking thing that’s good in his life, he can do this for Hux, he can—

The door opens.

“What the—Ren?”

“Hi,” Kylo says suddenly, his brain slowing to a complete halt. “It’s me. Hi.”

Hux looks _good_. He’s wearing black skinny jeans and a light blue checkered button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His hair is looser than how he wears it in the coffee shop—still run through with product, but there’s a chunk of it falling forward onto his face, and Kylo wants to touch it. Just with the tips of his fingers. He would be gentle, he would be so gentle, would just—brush Hux’s hair back where it’s supposed to be, would run his thumb along the side of Hux’s face—

“That’s enough,” Hux says softly.

“What?”

“You’re staring,” Hux says. His accent is—different, slightly, from how it is at work.

“Sorry, I—”

“What the fuck are you doing here, anyway?”

“I’m just—I’m—” Kylo swallows, hard. He can’t—something about the way Hux says _fuck_ is really messing him up, and he’s having a hard time thinking. “I’m.” He’s suddenly conscious of the script he’s holding in his hand, and shoves it into his pocket—but he doesn’t have the fucking thing memorized, so now he’s really fucked. “Yesterday,” he says.

“No,” Hux says. “It’s not up for discussion, and it didn’t happen.”

“I didn’t know you painted.”

“I don’t,” Hux says curtly. He’s holding a paintbrush in one hand, and there’s a smear of blue paint on his thumbnail that is bizarrely out of place on his otherwise immaculate hands. “What do you want, Ren?”

“I want to help,” Kylo says finally. That was in the script—or something like it was in the script—either way, he feels like he’s getting his feet under himself, a little bit. “I came to help with the—with the other thing. Can I—can I come in?” He lifts his chin slightly to look over Hux’s shoulder, and Hux shifts his body, pulls the door shut behind him so that Kylo can’t see into the studio.

“Absolutely not,” Hux says. “No. You can’t. Help, or anything.”

“I can, though,” Kylo insists. “You need to be married to get your—”

Hux tenses, jaw tight and mouth flat.

“Marry me,” Kylo blurts out.

Hux’s face goes pale, and then red, and then back to pale again, the only spot of colour remaining a bright red spot on his lip where he’s bitten through it, and Kylo wants—Kylo wants to reach out and rub it away with his thumb, wants to hug Hux to make it stop hurting, wants to gather Hux into his arms and just fucking hold him, maybe touch his face and his hair, pull Hux against him and—

Hux opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, and if he tells Kylo to fuck off again, Kylo’s gonna have to go—so Kylo shifts his shoulder and pulls his jacket off the flowers, and shoves the arrangement at Hux.

“Theseareforyou,” he says, slurring it all into one word.

Hux’s eyebrows shoot up, and he takes a step backward, his back contacting with the door of his own studio.

The flowers look like shit—they’re crushed from Kylo having his jacket over them, and a couple of the blooms have actually broken at the stems. Kylo’s immediately second-guessing them—was including roses in the arrangement a bad idea? Is it too intense? He’d stayed away from the red ones, gone for pink instead and had some carnations and stuff added in as well, but the roses are painfully, excruciatingly obvious and when Kylo had imagined handing them over, he’d imagined doing it—nicely, and having Hux say _thank you_ and being appreciative and not—not this.

Not Hux standing here, with his back against the closed door of his studio, staring down at the flowers that Kylo had just—shoved at him.

“I can help,” Kylo says softly, conscious now that there’s hardly any noise in the hallway at all, that if he speaks too loudly his voice will carry and the other graduate students will be able to hear, that they’ll get together afterwards and make fun of him for being the idiot undergrad who thought he could bring Hux flowers first thing on a Saturday morning, and it would have all been worth it if Hux had appreciated the flowers and said _yes_ , but Hux—

—Hux isn’t saying anything.

“Let me help?” Kylo asks, pleading. He shifts, starts to go down on one knee because that was actually part of the plan, he’d just forgotten it until now—

“Get up,” Hux says in a strangled whisper.

Kylo looks up at him.

“Get up, and just—we’re not doing this here,” Hux says. “We’re not—wait.”

He opens his studio door, disappears inside with the flowers. Shuts the door behind him.

Kylo waits.

 

It’s thirty seven minutes. Not that Kylo’s counting, but it’s hard not to keep track when there’s a fucking clock mounted just down the hall, and everything is so silent that all he can hear are the ticks. Thirty seven minutes of Kylo standing there and waiting and knowing that he’s not going to leave, thirty seven minutes of not being able to hear anything other than the fucking clock and the chatter that did, finally, start up again at the end of the hall. Thirty seven minutes, and when Hux’s studio door finally opens, it’s so sudden that Kylo actually jolts a little, jacket falling to the ground, and by the time he’s bent to pick it up, Hux has locked his studio and is already striding down the hall, his greatcoat trailing out behind him.

“Try to keep up,” he says sharply as Kylo catches up to him.

Kylo bites off any number of snarky responses, because Hux hasn’t said no yet. Hux hasn’t said no yet, and Hux hasn’t told Kylo to fuck off, and Hux—Hux kept the flowers, because they’re not with him now. Somewhere in Hux’s studio—whatever the interior of the fucking thing looks like—are the flowers that Kylo brought him.

( _In the trash,_ Kylo’s brain helpfully supplies, and Kylo shoves that thought back down in the pit where it belongs.)

He follows Hux out of the art department, across the campus. Kylo’s sweating to death in his dress shirt, even with his jacket off, but his legs are just a fraction longer than Hux’s are, so he’s able to keep pace with Hux, hold his jacket in his teeth while he undoes his cuffs so that he can roll his sleeves up.

(It’s a good look on Hux. Maybe it’ll be a good look on Kylo, too? Maybe—maybe Hux likes men that have their sleeves rolled up? Maybe Hux likes—)

“Can I go where you’re going?” Kylo asks.

Hux looks him up and down without slowing his stride. “Those shoes are gonna hold up for a walk?”

Kylo looks down at his own feet, stumbling a minute. Like, okay, yeah—maybe his battered old Converse weren’t the best option here, but it would have looked even stupider to have worn dress shoes with jeans, because Hux—

—Hux is wearing dress shoes with his jeans. Of course.

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “Yeah, they’re—they’re fine.”

“This way,” Hux says, and he turns the corner, jaywalks across the street, coat billowing out behind him as he dodges an oncoming car, and then keeps walking down the sidewalk on the other side like nothing happened.

Kylo hesitates a moment, waiting for traffic to clear, and then follows.

 

Hux stops on the street after they’ve been walking for about forty-five minutes, looks around for a moment like he’s confused.

_There’s nothing here_ , Kylo wants to say, but after a moment, Hux walks over to one of the dumpsters in the alley, and pulls out a sandwich board from behind it. Kicks the thing with his foot to unfold it, sets it up on the sidewalk. Mutters something too quiet for Kylo to hear.

The chalk on the board is smeared. There’s a green smudge in the corner that possibly used to be a shamrock, and writing claiming _Good food! Good drinks! Solitude!_ on the main part of it.

“That where we’re going?” Kylo asks.

“Yes,” Hux says shortly. He walks a little further past the alley, and then opens a door that’s so dark it’s nearly completely blended into the building it opens into.

Kylo shrugs, and follows him in.

 

_Solitude is right_ , Kylo thinks as he gets inside. The place is all dark wood panelling, threadbare upholstered seats and booths, art on the walls. It’s very close to empty even though it’s early Saturday afternoon. It’s a good thing Hux goes first, because Hux ducking as he enters is the warning Kylo needs to do the same to avoid smashing his head on a low support beam that’s just inside.

Hux looks back over his shoulder when Kylo enters, but doesn’t say anything.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” calls out a young man from behind the bar.

“Your sign’s down out front, you lazy fuck,” Hux says sharply.

The man shrugs. He’s seated atop the bar, remote control in his hand, and eyes mostly fixed on the tv mounted up on the ceiling. Football, it looks like, though Kylo has no context other than that, and hopes to fuck that he doesn’t have to get any, because if Hux is into sports, Kylo’s gonna have to do a bunch of learning real quick.

“Wind blew it over,” the man responds.

“Behind the dumpster.”

The man shrugs again, grinning. “You here for a beer with your—friend, or what?”

Kylo’s ears burn.

“Obviously,” Hux snaps. He gestures to the taps.

“You haven’t ordered,” the man says.

“For fuck’s sake, Bala-Tik,” Hux says. “Would you do some damn work?”

Bala-Tik slides off the bar. It’s tough for Kylo to tell his age, for some reason—in some lights, he looks ridiculously young, and in others, he looks older than Kylo. He pulls two pint glasses out from under the counter, pours some kind of light gold beer for Hux, and then stares at Kylo a moment before picking another tap, and pouring something else.

Kylo yanks out his wallet.

“Don’t,” Hux says. “Just take your fucking beer to the back, would you?”

Kylo nods, steps up to the bar. Takes both beers, and walks to what he would consider the back of the bar—directly to the right of where they’d entered, as far back as he can go. He slides into the booth, mindful of the tear in the seat cushion, and sets his jacket down.

Fucking hell, it’s warm in here too. Kylo shoves his sleeves further up his arms, but it’s not really helping. He can feel the spot on his lower back where his shirt is starting to stick, and he tries to calm himself down by thinking about the cold shower he’s going to have when he gets home. The cold shower and the tshirt that he’ll put on afterwards. Once he’s done with—this Hux thing.

He turns, looks back at the bar. Hux is standing there, back to Kylo, grimly tossing back what looks like the second of three shots. He’s hung his coat up somewhere, and he’s just so fucking—slim and gorgeous and untouchable and unattainable, and Kylo is a fucking idiot to think that this is going to work.

Kylo—contemplates leaving, for a moment. Contemplates whether he should just walk out, because if Hux is pounding back shots just so that he can tolerate Kylo’s company, then he’s probably just going to—refuse the fake engagement and the living together, refuse the entire thing which is probably a smarter idea than going along with it, except if Hux is just going to say _no_ , then why bother coming all the way over here just to tell Kylo something that he could have just as easily told Kylo in the art department—if Hux is just going to say _no_ , then why take his flowers? If Hux is—

“Explain,” Hux says, sliding into the booth opposite Kylo. His breath smells of whiskey.

Kylo looks at him.

Hux takes a drink of his beer, sets it back down on the table exactly inside the ring of condensation it had previously left. “I’m waiting,” he says. His accent is—different, somehow. Softer, or rounder.

It’s fucking Kylo up just as much as the profanity had fucked him up earlier.

“Your inheritance is dependent on you being married,” Kylo says. “And you don’t have anywhere to live.”

Hux extends his hand, ticks his points off on his fingers. “There’s nothing to be done about the inheritance, the requirements are unachievable. I have somewhere to live until the end of the month, after which I will find another place to live. You’re telling me things that I already know, and you’re not telling me what I actually _want_ to know, which is—” Hux’s voice cracks a little, and he picks up his beer, takes a deep drink of it before setting it back down inside the condensation ring again. “What the _fuck_ , Ren? ‘Marry me’?”

“It would fix things,” Kylo says stubbornly. “I could—I could fix things. I’m the only person that can fix it, you can—you can live with me.” Kylo hesitates for a moment, because if Hux is gonna tell him to fuck off, it’s gonna be now—and then forges on ahead even though he can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s botching the entire thing. “You can live with me, and we’ll fake an engagement and we’ll get fake married, and I’ll—I’ll get you the inheritance. I’ll rescue you.”

It’s a horrible choice of words, and Kylo’s just fucking blurted it out like an idiot—and Hux’s fingers pause where he’s wiping condensation away from the bottom of his glass, Hux’s fingers still completely, and Kylo—just— _waits_.

After entirely too long a period of time, Hux opens his mouth. “I don’t need that from you,” he says softly. He’s looking down at the table, won’t make eye contact.

“Okay,” Kylo says, nodding, already preparing to get up and leave. “Obviously, yeah.” Of course Hux doesn’t need that from him, of course he doesn’t, and it was stupid of Kylo to have even offered, it was stupid of Kylo to have even—

“The fake engagement, though. For the inheritance.” Hux swallows. “I don’t—I don’t _need_ that either, I can get by without it. But.”

“You deserve it,” Kylo says, his heart pounding rapidly, because it sounds like Hux is going to say _yes_ —Kylo would give literally anything for Hux to say _yes_ , he’s never so desperately in his life needed anything except for Hux to say _yes_ , and so he keeps talking, trying to convince him. “You deserve the money. And I swear, I’m a good person.” _I’ve literally never thought about touching you inappropriately—like, on your hand, or on your shoulder, or the side of your face. Not once._ “It’ll be—platonic, the whole thing. But we’ll, like. Meet all the requirements, and it’s just—you had plans for the money, for moving, and you deserve that, you’ve been a really good frie—person, you know, to work with, and you deserve—anyway, we can just annul it after, you know?”

“We can annul it after,” Hux repeats blankly. He’s looking at Kylo now, but he’s blinking entirely too rapidly to be focused on anything, finger repetitively moving across a deep groove in the table.

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “After the wedding, after you get your money. We’ll just, like, say it wasn’t consummated, or whatever, or—we can live separately after you move, obviously we’ll live separately after you move, and that should be enough to—I’m sure you can just annul after that.” He stops talking to breathe for a moment, takes a drink from his beer. The beer is dark, malty, and tastes almost like smoke, or a wooden barrel. He’s so fucking nervous that he feels like he’s going to die and can’t stop second-guessing everything he’s said and he doesn’t—he doesn’t know why the fuck he said _platonic_ when he didn’t fuck mean it, he just wants Hux to say _yes_ so badly, he wants Hux to say _yes_ so badly that it fucking hurts—

“Right,” Hux says. He takes another drink, sets his beer down outside the condensation circle. Slides his finger up the bridge of his nose even though there’s nothing there, and then—laughs. There’s an edge of hysteria on it. “Right, because it’s a—it’s a platonic marriage. It’s a platonic gay marriage, this is—yeah, this is—everything that he—the executor—yeah, this. This is.” He has another drink, sets his glass back in a new location. Puts his head in his hands.

It’s too much.

“This was stupid,” Kylo says.

“Yes, obviously,” Hux says, voice muffled by his hands.

“You don’t need to be a prick about it,” Kylo snaps. “I know, I just told you—”

Hux looks up, skin slightly pink where his head had been in his hands. “Yes, obviously,” he repeats. “ _I said yes_ , _Ren_ _._ Yes to this—fake engagement proposal _thing_ that you seem to think is such a fucking good idea.”

“…oh.”

“Did you think I was calling you an idiot?” Hux asks, looking amused now. “Because I would just use my words for that.”

Kylo’s ears are burning again. He looks away. “I just wanted to be sure,” he says.

Hux chuckles again. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

“Uh,” Kylo says. “Yeah?”

“Fish and chips?”

“This is an Irish pub,” Kylo points out. “What about Irish nachos?”

Hux’s face darkens. “This is a _bullshit_ Irish pub, is what this is. And you’re not eating those.” His accent has gone slightly off again. He slides out of the booth, stands up. “I’m going to order—yes, or no?”

“Yes,” Kylo says.

“Alright, then,” Hux responds.

Kylo watches him leave for a moment, before feeling guilty about it and looking away.

 

When Hux comes back, it’s with two plates of food.

“That was quick,” Kylo says.

“Deep fryer,” Hux says dismissively. “It’s not actual food.” He sets a plate down in front of Kylo, and then slides back into the booth.

They eat in silence. Kylo makes a specific point of putting down his utensils before picking up his beer, paranoid about Hux’s perception of his manners—but soon after realizes that it doesn’t fucking matter, because Hux seems to be making a similarly specific point of drinking with one hand and eating with the other, not looking up from his plate at all.

Kylo is halfway through his next beer and just finishing off his food when Hux finally puts down his utensils, pushes his mostly-full plate away.

“So,” Hux says conversationally.

Kylo looks up.

“What’s your percentage?”

“What?” Kylo asks stupidly. “My—my what?”

“Your percentage,” Hux says, smiling. “I want to know what your percentage is.” He traces his finger across that groove in the table again. “What amount of my inheritance do you want?”

“I don’t—” Kylo says—and then he stops, swallows. Realizes if he tells the truth, that he doesn’t want anything, he’s going to absolutely fuck this entire situation over. If he admits to Hux that he doesn’t want a percentage, then Hux is going to start digging around for what exactly he does want, and after Kylo had already blurted out that stupid shit about rescuing him when he _clearly_ doesn’t need or want it—Kylo’s got nothing else. Nothing else but the horrible awful truth, which is that he’s too chicken to ask Hux out, that he’s been trying and failing to do it for years, and this is an opportunity for Kylo to at least be close to him. If Kylo can’t date Hux, he can at least be close to him.  All the variants of the truth are awful, and Kylo didn’t bother thinking up a lie—so he’s just going to stick with the one that Hux has conveniently provided for him, even though thinking about taking Hux’s money makes Kylo feel sick to his stomach.

(Of course Hux isn’t just magically going to admit that he wants to date for real. Of course Hux hasn’t been secretly pining for Kylo the same way that Kylo has been pining for Hux. Get a fucking grip, Ren.)

Kylo takes the out Hux gives him, the out that Hux has served up to him on a platter. “Seventeen percent,” he says. It’s an uneven number, which hopefully makes it sound like Kylo’s put some fucking thought into this.

Hux laughs in his face. “Not a fucking chance.” He drains the rest of his pint, shoves the glass over to the edge of the table. “You’d be lucky to get half that.”

“Eight percent, then,” Kylo says. “Five percent when you get the money, and—and the other three percent paid out at one percent a year over the length of the marriage up until the annulment. It won’t—it won’t look good if we annul right away.”

“Ah, yes, delaying the annulment of a celibate fake marriage,” Hux says.

Kylo flushes and looks away. “Whatever,” he mutters, hoping his hair covers the way that his ears are turning red. “I’m the one doing you the fucking favour.”

“I don’t think there’s any fucking going along with this favour,” Hux says tartly. “You were the one that brought that up, so don’t even think that you get to flagellate me with it now.”

“I know what that word means,” Kylo mutters.

“Surprise, surprise,” Hux says.

Kylo drains the rest of his pint, gives the glass a shove toward the end of the table where Hux’s is, and over-shoves it—careless and clumsy just like he always is, and he’ll end up breaking this just the same as he ends up breaking everything else—

Hux darts out his hand, catches the glass just before it hits the floor, sets it back up on the table like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t have the reflexes of a fucking cat.

Kylo stares at him.

“I’ll draw up a contract,” Hux says finally. “Nine percent lump sum when I get the inheritance money.”

“I was only asking for eight,” Kylo says. “Eight percent and three years so it looks good.”

“Oh, look at that,” Hux says. “The arts major, doing some math.”

Kylo flushes again, looks down at the table.

“Nine percent lump sum is fine,” Hux says. “You won’t make three years. I’m not easy to live with, and you’ll want it annulled as soon as possible.”

“I won’t,” Kylo says.

“You will,” Hux says. He looks off to the side. “I’ve given up my place,” he says, more quietly.

“I know.” Kylo eyes the remainder of the food on Hux’s plate, tries to figure out if it’s considered polite to eat it. He’s so gone on Hux that he would definitely eat the remnants of the fish that Hux has picked apart and shredded onto his plate, but settles for reaching out and grabbing a couple of the fries closest to his side of the table.

“I’ll have to move in with you.”

“Fine,” Kylo says. “That’s fine.” His stomach explodes in butterflies, and Kylo swallows to keep them down, steals a couple more fries. Moving in together is fine. He knew this was what was going to happen. He can’t freak out about it now.

“It’ll have to look legit.”

“Fine.”

“My stuff will be in your kitchen.”

“Fine.”

“Your bathroom.”

“Fine.”

“How big is your bed?”

“Big enough,” Kylo says, and then immediately feels his face warming because he doesn’t actually know how big _big enough_ entails. They’re both tall, and what if—what if Hux sprawls in his sleep or something, what if Hux—what if Hux’s hand brushes against Kylo’s shoulder? “We won’t have to cuddle or anything,” Kylo adds, trying to reassure himself just as much as Hux—and completely failing, because now cuddling Hux is all he can think about.

(Is his hair soft, when all the product is washed out? What does his skin smell like?)

Hux shrugs, face tightening again, and extends his hand out to Kylo.

Kylo just stares at it.

“Shake,” Hux says. His voice has gone crisp again even after the alcohol, the same British accent Kylo is used to hearing from him.

(The same sharp accent that digs right into Kylo’s spine and stays there.)

“As an agreement to our verbal contract. I’ll have a written one to you later this week, but honestly, I would feel significantly more comfortable with this if you would shake on this now, seeing as I’m in a tight spot and need to rely on your apartment for housing. I don’t want to end up thrown out on the street if you decide you’re going to go back on your word.”

“I won’t,” Kylo says. “I won’t—I don’t do that, I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t throw you out.”

“All the same,” Hux says, his hand still extended. “I’d really rather we were formal about this.”

Kylo scrubs his hand off on his jeans under the table, tries to get most of the sweat and grease off his palm. He has every intention of just making this quick—reach across the table, quick clinical press of hands. Hux’s palm against his, Hux’s _fingers_ against his, Hux’s hand completely dwarfed in Kylo’s grip and so vulnerable, so small, so—fuck, fuck, fuck, just a quick handshake, Kylo’s overthinking this just like he overthinks everything else in his life, that’s why this entire thing had happened anyways—because he’d been too much of a coward to ask Hux out in the first place, that’s why this entire thing has to be fake now and he’ll never be able to get the real thing after this, not after they’ve gone through the entire fucking charade but the charade is going to be enough, the charade has to be enough—

Except when he clasps Hux’s hand in his and then loosens his grip, Hux doesn’t let go.

Kylo blinks, and Hux is—Hux is still not letting go, Hux is actually running his thumb along the side of Kylo’s hand, and Hux’s fingers are gripping gently onto Kylo’s, and Kylo actually might die if this keeps happening except it’s still happening because Hux is just refusing to let go and Kylo’s not going to be the rude one here, he’s not going to be the one that pulls his hand away—

Hux lets go, and Kylo is bereft.

“Another round?” Hux asks, sliding out of the booth.

“Yeah,” Kylo says, looking down at his hand where Hux had been holding it. “More, please.”

 

 

 

 

 


	2. spite like armour and hatred like an oil slick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage Hux has a routine, has a schedule, has everything organized the way he likes it. He works on his thesis, and he works at the coffeeshop, and he has explicit gay fantasies about his boring straight coworker. Once—once, Armitage thought he was going to get the fuck out of here and start a new life for himself, and then everything went to hell and that was yesterday.
> 
> Ideally, he can just forget the last twenty four hours of his life even happened--but then, there's Ren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No chapter-specific warnings for this chapter.

The girls sitting by the fireplace have been staring at Ren and fucking _tittering_ for the last hour, and Armitage is going to kick them the hell out the moment he figures out a legitimate reason to do so.

(He _has_ a legitimate reason, and it’s this: Armitage Hux has a routine, has a schedule, has everything organized the way he likes it. He works on his thesis, and he works at the coffeeshop, and he has explicit gay fantasies about his boring straight coworker. Once—once, Armitage thought he was going to get the fuck out of here and start a new life for himself, and then everything went to hell and that was _yesterday_ , so maybe the girls could just stop fucking _giggling_ because it’s interrupting all of his attempts to forget that the last twenty four hours of his life even happened.)

All he wants is to perv over Ren in peace and quiet, same as he always does. To forget that Ren has fucked it up, escalated their relationship from _nothing_ to _fake engagement_ for—for money? So he can lord Armitage’s weaknesses over him? Armitage doesn’t even know why the fuck Ren had fumbled into promising anything in the first place—anyone with the tiniest bit of common sense would have butted the fuck out when he’d seen he wasn’t wanted, but Ren couldn’t take a hint even if it was signed, embossed, and handed over to him on a fancy fucking piece of paper.

Fake engagement, his arse. Fake _celibate_ engagement. The absolute _nerve_ of Ren, trying to get down on one knee right outside Armitage’s studio. Any of the other grad students could have seen. They probably _did_ see. It’s not enough for Ren to have caught Armitage out, it’s not enough for Ren’s fucking performative allyship and the part where he just _reeks_ heterosexuality—no, Ren needs to rub it in Armitage’s face at school, and then at work, and—and the next thing he knows, Ren will want to meet his _father_ and fuck that. No, thank you.

(But _no, thank you_ does not explain why the fuck had Armitage said _yes. No_ had been his answer, and _no_ should have been what he’d said, but his tongue had weaselled out of it at the last moment, warmed by the whiskey and the beer and the sheer _magnitude_ of Ren’s presence. Armitage has never been able to figure out why Ren is so fucking appealing to him, but it’s never been a problem that required an immediate solution—and now he’s stuck.)

The girls erupt in another bout of giggles. Armitage glares at them.

Ren, like the idiot he is, is oblivious, slouching around behind the counter like usual—except slower, and with more fuckups. They didn’t drink _that_ much last night, so he doesn’t know what the fuck Ren’s problem is. Armitage doesn’t feel a thing except for the headache he regularly has when everything has gone all to shit. Today is no different than yesterday in that regard.

Ren has his earbuds in. Armitage can see the cable sticking out at the base of his neck even though Ren’s tried to hide it in his hair. Corporate will have a shit-fit about it if Armitage reports it, which he might. He hasn’t decided yet. It depends how much Ren manages to piss him off today, but so far, Ren is both staying out of his way, and ignoring the girls staring at him, and if he hasn’t noticed them yet, maybe he just _won’t_.

That would be fine.

Goddamn Ren and his—and his lanky runner’s body and his shaggy hair and his awkward nose and his slightly crooked teeth and his fucking _ally_ pin.

(Armitage has got something he’d like Ren to be allied with, once he tosses Ren in the shower and washes that foul cologne off. He would bend Ren over so fast it would make Ren’s head spin.)

(He’d let Ren bend him over too. It’s not like he’s picky.)

(He is picky. He’s _horrifically_ picky and it’s why everyone hates his guts, sooner or later, but Ren is slow. It’d take him a while to catch on. Armitage could make the most of it.)

Armitage doesn’t have enough fingers to count the number of times he’s touched himself and imagined Ren, and that’s just over the last week. Now he’s going to be going through the motions of a fake engagement with a straight boy, and if Ren thought Armitage was tolerable enough to able to withstand a fake engagement all the way through to a fake wedding—well, that’ll wear off. It always does. 

(It’ll fall apart sooner rather than later. Everyone in Armitage’s proximity ends up hating him eventually.)

But until _later_ happens, until his life explodes all over again—at least Armitage has _now_ , at least Armitage has this shift, where if he blocks out the girls, tilts his body so he can’t see his own desire reflected in their eyes—he can just focus on Ren’s hands, those monstrously thick fingers that would feel absolutely amazing right up Armitage’s—

“—doing something wrong?”

“What,” Armitage snarls, blinking sharply.

Ren takes a step back. “I just—am I doing something wrong? You’re, uh. You’re …”

Armitage rolls his eyes. “Not everything is about you, Ren.”

“Yeah,” Ren says. “Yeah, uh, okay.”

This is, though.

This is definitely about Ren.

 

Armitage compartmentalizes the rest of his day, focuses on things he actually likes—watching Ren, castigating Ren for his myriad and plentiful mistakes, and avoiding Ren so they don’t have to discuss anything that happened yesterday at work. Ren doesn’t attempt to corner Armitage anywhere, though—which must mean he’s waiting to see the contract before he backs out of the whole thing.

(Fucking hell, Armitage has to write a contract. He knows how petty this is going to look once it’s written down—he knows any decent person would just take Ren at his word instead of requiring signed written documentation, but he said he was going to do it, so he’s going to do it, no matter how terrible it makes him look.)

Armitage leaves work immediately after his shift, brushes past Ren without bothering to speak to him. His head is pounding by the time he gets home, and his footsteps echoing in his now-empty apartment make it worse. He can see the air mattress in his bedroom through the cracked open door, flopped there with his comforter and sheets spread out over it. Depressing. Horrible.

(Exactly what he deserves.)

Millicent is up on the counter even though she knows she shouldn’t be. Armitage clicks his tongue at her. She turns away, jumps down to the floor with a soft _boof,_ and wanders into the empty living room. With all his boxes gone and his things in storage, the reality of having given up his place is tangible rather than theoretical. (It serves him right, for acting on money he thought he had, instead of waiting to be certain of it.)

Armitage doesn’t even know where Ren lives. It’s probably a shithole.

Someone as messy as Ren almost definitely lives in a shithole.

He sighs. He might as well find out now so he can prepare for it.

_Armitage: Do you have Ren’s number?_

_Poe: I can pass on a message, yeah._

_Armitage: Tell him to text me._

_Poe: Are you sure you don’t just want me to pass on a message?_

_Armitage: Tell him to text me._

_Poe: Why?_

_Armitage: It’s a work thing._

_Poe: Look, I’ll just deal with that._

_Armitage: No, I’m doing it. He doesn’t want you dressing him down for stupid shit he should have mastered six months ago. He expects it from me._

_Poe: Hux._

_Armitage: If he doesn’t want to text me, he won’t._

_Poe: Look, I’ll give him your number._

_Poe: But._

_Poe: Hux._

(If Poe continues to send a text every third word, Armitage is going to poison his coffee.)

_Poe: Are you doing alright?_

_Poe: I didn’t want to ask at work._

_Poe: I know you’re particular about that._

_Poe: But._

_Armitage: I’m fine._

Armitage leaves a dish of food out for Millicent. She doesn’t come running for it, so apparently she’s sulking about the movers. If he’s lucky, he’ll see her during his evening bath. If he’s not, he’ll see her in the middle of the night when she hops up onto his air mattress, claws first.

He takes a beer out of his nearly empty fridge, knocks the cap off on the edge of the counter. The first swig is cool, calming, and exactly what he needs after—after _Ren_ and his fake celibate engagement.

(Armitage should _not_ have said _yes_ to that. It’s going to ruin everything. Ren isn’t as good an actor as he apparently thinks he is, and it would be much, much easier if Ren would just fucking _drop it_ before they start sharing the same physical space—but the chance to update his masturbatory catalogue is apparently too tempting for a pervert like him. So here he is—moving in with a straight boy even though Ren won’t be able to fake it long enough to make it to marriage, and Armitage’s inheritance isn’t leaving the bank account it’s stuck in.)

(Statistically speaking, though, it’s far more likely he’ll be able to see Ren shirtless in his own apartment than at work, so at least that’s something to look forward to.)

Armitage taps out a text with one hand as he wanders over to the bathroom, letting his beer bottle dangle from the fingers of his other hand.

_Armitage: Thank you for being here for the movers. I appreciate it._

He starts the bath running. Washes his hands, picks his contacts out of his eyes, rolls the lenses between his fingers and flicks them into the trash. Cleans his glasses, and put them on, blinking as his eyes adjust.

His phone buzzes.

_Phasma: np_

He strips down, sorting his laundry into bins as he goes. By the time he’s finished, the bath is done. He shuts off the water. Normally, he would add bath products—bubbles or oil, something scented, but he’s swamped right now and won’t have time to deep-clean the tub before moving out, so hot water it is. He sets his phone on a towel beside the tub, and carefully lowers himself in. Has another swig of beer. Wonders, vaguely, if Bala-Tik’s place will still be within stumbling distance of Ren’s, but it probably won’t be. (He won’t be that lucky.)

His phone buzzes again.

_Unknown Number: Poe said you wanted to get in touch. This is my number. I always have my phone with me except at work and I try to respond really quickly to texts? I know your time is super important._

_Unknown Number: And yeah, I know, I fucked up a lot today. I didn’t get a chance to tell you before you left, but I’m honestly so sorry._

_Unknown Number: I grabbed an extra copy of the training documentation, I’m reviewing it tonight. It’s not going to happen again. I know I’ve only got a couple shifts left, but still._

_Unknown Number: Like, whatever needs to happen for discipline is fine, I get it. You can’t have stuff like this happening at work. We’re gonna get complaints, I know. But I promise it won’t happen again._

Armitage frowns at his screen.

_Armitage: Ren?_

The response comes in almost immediately.

_Unknown Number: Yeah, sorry. It’s me. Hi._

_Unknown Number: I should have started with that. I wasn’t thinking._

Armitage stares at the texts for a few more minutes, drinks more of his beer. He hadn’t expected Ren to be a coherent texter, and the part where he not only is, but is somehow _polite_ about it is leaving Armitage unmoored and a little confused. Ren texts like he’s applying for a job, like this is the actual interview, and it—is, in a sense, and Ren’s…well, he’s not failing.

_Armitage: I don’t know where you live._

The phone pings again, lights up with Ren’s address, and Armitage’s chest tightens.

_Armitage: That’s walking distance from my place._

_Ren: No way, really? I had no idea we lived so close to each other._

_Ren: I mean, I guess I should have figured it out because the bar we were at yesterday was close to home, I’d just never been there before._

_Ren: That’s super convenient, I’m glad._

Armitage takes a screenshot so he has a copy of Ren’s address, and then screenshots the text message as well. He switches over to his gallery, and—

No.

Armitage sets his phone down, sticks his feet out the far end of the bath so that he can lower himself down to get his shoulders into the water. He’s suffering enough. He doesn’t need to make himself suffer more.

_Armitage: I need another favour._

_Phasma: mmm sounds liek u’ll be buying me some very expensive vodka_

_Armitage: The arrangement I told you about. I need a contract drafted. I’ll send over the terms. It needs to look good. Base it off those inescapable things you have at work._

_Phasma: omg this is frm ur freakout yesterday_

_Phasma: HILARIOUS_

_Phasma: yeah fucking send that shit over_

_Phasma: i’ll give him a contract he can’t refuse_

He closes his text messages. Drafts the email and sends it, bumps Ren’s percentage up to ten percent. What does it matter, at this point? It’s all a fucking waste of time.

Armitage opens his photos, looks at the most recent ones. Ren’s flowers look like shit. The heads of two of the carnations are broken at the stem. One of the roses is broken in the same way, with a second rose threatening to give way any moment now. There’s a scattering of petals around the base of the coffee cup he’s using as a vase. He should water them. They’re going to die, but maybe Armitage can convince them to hold on just a little bit longer if he waters them, talks to them, treats them nicely—all the stuff that’s supposed to be done with flowers that Armitage has no idea how to do with people.

_Armitage: Check your email._

_Phasma: k but seriously_

_Armitage: No further discussion needed. I’ll have the vodka for the next time I see you._

_Phasma: also lemme take ur cat_

_Phasma: she stresses w/moves_

_Phasma: she loves visiting me_

_Armitage: Fine._

Of course this is how this goes down. Of course Phasma is going to hold his cat hostage as part of the favour. Of course.

“Millie?” he calls out.

She ignores him.

 

By the time he emerges from the tub, skin red and toes wrinkled, he doesn’t feel relaxed. He just feels drained.

He has more text messages.

_Ren: Hey, so. I know you’re probably busy doing stuff. But I was just looking at a calendar, and the last day of the month is Friday._

_Ren: Would it be more useful if I rent a truck for the move? If you still want to. I know we’d been drinking when we discussed it yesterday._

Armitage’s mouth tightens.

_Armitage: I wasn’t drunk._

_Ren: Neither was I! Okay, good. I just wanted to check and make sure._

Armitage wants to leave it there, wants to let it sit. Doesn’t want to have anything to do with—any of this, to be honest, because it feels like he’s just stepping into a grave that Ren’s dug out for him with his bare hands, but his only other alternative is Phasma’s place, and she only offered to take the cat—she didn’t offer to take him.

_Armitage: Truck not necessary. I have my clothing, laundry baskets, some smaller items._

_Ren: Okay, that sounds great._

_Ren: Let me know when you’d like me to meet you on Friday, okay?_

_Armitage: I work until four._

_Ren: Great!_

It is not great.

But of course Ren thinks it is.

Of course he does.

 

Phasma drops the contract off on Wednesday, the same day that she picks up Millicent.

“You’re stalling,” she says flatly.

Armitage rubs his face into the ruff on Millie’s neck, hums against her fur. She purrs against him, and he can feel her quick little exhales on his shoulder, the neck of his sweater dragged down by the weight of her body as she attempts to ooze to the floor and out of his grasp.

“Give me the cat,” she says. “Go have a beer, read the contract to make sure you’re happy with it.”

“I’m sure your work is impeccable,” Armitage says. He crouches down, lowers Millie into her carrier.

She yowls her displeasure, flicks her tail around trying to hit him in the face.

He sighs heavily, stands up. “I’ll let you know once things have settled out with Ren. Keep me—”

“I know,” Phasma says. She hefts the cat carrier and the bag of cat toys in one hand, and the bottle of vodka and the cat food in the other. “Go read your contract, Hux. We’re going to be fine.” She hesitates a moment. “You’re making the right decision,” she says, finally. “This is important to you—you need it to work out.”

“I’m fine,” Armitage says. “I’ll just—I’ll come collect my cat once things have gone south here and I’ve found a new place.”

Phasma shrugs. “I’ll just drop her off once you’re settled in.”

He watches them go. Stands there in his empty apartment for a few minutes after they leave, staring at the closed door. He can’t hear the clock ticking, because he packed that up with the rest of his things, but he feels the time passing all the same, stretching out into deafening silence. There’s nothing good coming at the end of this.

His eyes flicker over the contract Phasma has drafted. It’s thicker than he expected, and he should probably look at it, but he won’t. He doesn’t care what’s in it.

 

He breezes into the coffeeshop late Wednesday night to sort out whatever the hell Poe has done with the books. Poe won’t commit to whether there’s a corporate visit happening over the weekend, and Armitage has no intention of showing up—intends, to be honest, to spend the weekend drunk and ogling Ren—but he wants to know that the books are in good shape.

Ren is working—of _course_ Ren is working—and he looks up at Armitage as soon as he enters, eyes earnest and hopeful. Armitage scowls at him, and stalks into the back.

Poe’s sitting there, feet up on the desk, phone in his hands. “Hey,” he says, brightening up. “I dunno what the hell you said to Kylo, but holy shit, his headphones are in his locker and everything.”

“His headphones,” Armitage says tightly, “would have been in his locker the day he got hired if you’d bothered paying any attention rather than letting things slide.”

Poe takes his feet off the desk, lets them thunk onto the floor. “Hey, just relax, Hux, would you? The numbers are good, corporate is pleased—”

“You’re a suckup.”

Poe’s eyes twinkle, and he puts his feet back up on the desk. “Corporate likes me better than they like you.”

“That’s to be expected,” Armitage says.

“Speaking of expectations, I didn’t expect to see you today,” Poe says. “I don’t think I scheduled you.”

“I still work here,” Armitage says acidly. “So you’d best get back to scheduling me.”

“You didn’t formally rescind your notice,” Poe says. “You just kept showing up. How many hours a week do you even want?”

Fuck, Armitage doesn’t even know what expenses are going to be like living at Ren’s. What’s his rent cost going to be? How bad are the utility bills? “Fuck, I don’t know,” he says. “My thesis is—deferred. I don’t know how busy I’ll be.”

“Oh,” Poe says, like he understands, like he has any fraction of an idea what Armitage is going through. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine.” Armitage starts fiddling with the lock on his locker, stalling even though he can unlock it in his sleep. “I’ll just sort out the books and head home. My head is killing me.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Poe says sagely.

Armitage nods. Opens his lock and waits for Poe to amble back out to the front before clicking it shut again and opening up Ren’s locker.

Poe wasn’t kidding. Ren’s headphones are here, and so is his phone. There’s a wadded up lump of fabric shoved to the back of the locker that’s—oh, disgusting. It’s a sweat-damp tshirt, and it smells like Ren, and if the headache he’d mentioned to Poe was a lie, it is very close to becoming reality just from the reek of Ren’s shirt. He slides the contract in its plain manila folder underneath the shirt, and then closes Ren’s locker again, shutting the door tightly.

The books are a disaster, but at this point, Armitage knows exactly where Poe keeps fucking them up, and it only takes him two hours to fix. He adds his time into the system, gives himself an extra hour on either end—one hour to make minimum callout, and another hour for having to deal with Poe’s bullshit—and then settles his greatcoat back onto his shoulders, and marches out of the back room.

“The computer’s making a weird noise,” he says to Poe.

Poe sighs, heads into the back.

“Hey,” Ren says, the moment the door swings shut behind Poe. “Hux.”

“Ren,” Armitage says coldly. He leans in close. “The contract is under that disgusting mess you call a tshirt. I expect it to be signed and dealt with by the time we meet on Friday.”

“Shit,” Ren says. “Fuck, yeah. Of—of course, Hux, yeah. Shit, I—yeah.”

Armitage rolls his eyes.

“Hey,” Ren says. “Before you go.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a piece of paper, fumbles with it, and drops something into his hand, slides it across the counter toward Armitage.

Armitage looks down.

Ren turns his hand, palm-up, revealing the object underneath it.

It’s a key.

“For my place,” Ren says, speaking to the palm of his other hand. “In case you wanted to move over earlier, which would be totally okay.”

“Friday will be fine,” Armitage says tightly.

When he picks up the key, he can feel the fresh-cut edges of it digging into his palm.

He hates it.

 

Friday comes far faster than what Armitage is prepared for. It’s a busy week, and Armitage’s reserves of patience—never overfull to begin with—are shot. Ren is on point the entire week, and it’s infuriating—he’s out of Armitage’s way, he’s doing his work correctly, he’s dressing according to code and keeping his hair pulled back, no earbuds in sight, and Armitage wants to slap him, because if he’s capable of doing all this work now—why the _fuck_ hasn’t he been doing it for the last two years? Is this just another way to fuck with Armitage? Is he supposed to—is he supposed to _relax_ , let his guard down, wait for Ren to stab him right in the fucking back? (He doesn’t know _how_ , but he has to assume it’s going to happen, and _fuck_ , why couldn’t Ren have left well enough alone?)

“Flowers?” Poe asks during the mid-afternoon lull.

Armitage jerks upward, flips his phone so it’s facedown on his thigh. “What the _fuck_ ,” he snarls.

“Didn’t know you liked flowers. Maybe if—”

“They’re for my thesis,” Armitage lies, voice just as tight as his face. “I thought you weren’t supposed to leave the new guy unattended?”

Poe shrugs. “There’s, like, three customers in the whole shop. Last round of exams was earlier this afternoon, everybody’s getting the hell out of the city. Plus, he’s fine. A little particular, but fine.” Poe crosses his arms over his chest, leans against the shelving. “I really do not miss the whole university thing. I have zero regrets about dropping out.”

“If you’d stayed in,” Armitage says, his voice measured. “I bet you could balance your own books.”

Poe smirks. “But then what would I need you for, Red?”

Armitage frowns. Unlocks his locker, and sticks his phone back into it, snaps the lock shut one-handed. “I’m heading back out.”

“You’ve still got ten minutes of break,” Poe says. “But do what you want.”

Armitage ignores him. What he wants is to go back to the way things were, when he could stare at Ren all day, jack off thinking about him at night, and never have to have any interaction with him outside of that.

It was better that way.

 

It’s three thirty-five when Ren walks in. Armitage hates that he can feel his own body simultaneously trying to flinch away, and turn toward him, like Ren is magnetized and Armitage is scrap metal. Ren looks unfairly nice today—dark jeans and a leather jacket, a black v-neck tshirt cut low enough that Armitage can see he’s completely lacking in chest hair, skin so smooth and soft-looking that Armitage wants to touch him right now, wants to—

—ugh, there are two kids trailing behind him—one of them with her hair up in some needlessly elaborate bun thing, and the other one gawking around like he’s never been in a coffeeshop before. Unsupervised kids are always a fucking nightmare. He hopes these ones have reasonable manners, but they probably won’t.

Ren, though. The thing is—Armitage can resist Ren’s clothing—making an effort once doesn’t mean shit, because if the clothing Ren normally wears is any indication, ninety five percent of his wardrobe is garbage. But when Ren leans over the counter to order, he _smells_ different. Faintly like woodsmoke, faintly like something else warm and spicy, and not even slightly like the shit he usually wears. It’s fucking with Armitage’s head. (It’s going right to Armitage’s cock.)

 “Hey,” Ren says to him. “One of those pumpkin spice things for me, and then whatever these two nerds want.”

Armitage doesn’t bother to suppress a visible shudder. Who the hell would leave their children with _Ren_ for the day?

“What?” Ren asks.

“You know we don’t sell those until fall,” Armitage says, switching the subject immediately, because he is _not_ getting into a childcare discussion with Ren. “I’ll make you your usual, and you’ll like it.”

Ren grins at him. It’s lopsided. It’s childish. Armitage hates it. Armitage hates _him_. Armitage hates him even as he considers taking Ren to the back, lying him flat out on the desk, and dragging his tongue over the skin exposed by that fucking shirt. (He goes back and forth on whether or not Ren will have visible abs once his shirt is rucked up. Probably not—he looks skinny by virtue of genetics and youth, not by virtue of the gym.)

He doesn’t bother writing anything on Ren’s cup, looks at the two kids hanging back behind Ren. “And?”

“Chai tea latte,” the girl says brightly.

“Milkshake,” the boy says, after getting elbowed in the ribs by the girl.

Armitage labels the cups _three pigtails_ and _baseball cap_ , taps the order into the computer. When he looks up, the girl is staring at him.

“Ren will bring you your drink,” he says. “You don’t need to gawk.”

“I’m staring,” she says. “It’s different.”

Armitage deliberately lifts her cup up where she can see it, crosses out _three pigtails_ and writes _rude_ , and then hands both cups over to the new guy. He starts working on Ren’s drink himself, a savoury hot chocolate spiced with cayenne that Armitage can’t stand. He deliberately stalls so that the new guy finishes with the other drinks first, watches Ren’s ass as Ren takes the other drinks back to the table, and then turns away as Ren returns for his own.

(The jeans look new—they certainly hug his ass tighter than any other pants Armitage has seen on Ren, and Armitage has, for one reason or another, spent a lot of time looking at Ren’s pants over the years.)

He watches Ren approach the counter, resolves to be restrained. Normal. Nothing like—nothing like that handshake, which had gone off the rails immediately because Armitage hadn’t expected Ren’s hand to be so damn warm, and he’d had to immediately recalibrate, like, sixteen of his favourite masturbatory scenarios and had forgotten to let go of Ren’s hand.

He’s not going to do that this time. He’s going to be completely normal about it. Not predatory at all.

When Armitage hands Ren’s drink over, his fingertips brush against Ren’s ever so slightly. It still feels like Ren’s skin is electrified, and Armitage can feel the hair standing up on his forearm as they touch, even though the contact is so, so brief.

“Hey,” Ren says in an undertone, leaning—no, looming—over the counter. “I know your shift’s done soon—do you want me just to head back to your place with you?”

Armitage hesitates, suddenly cold, because—no. No, he isn’t ready to have Ren come back with him. There’s not enough time in the world for him to be ready for that, and he hadn’t actually considered that _that_ was the reason Ren had showed up at the coffeeshop.

(Armitage wonders if it’s too late to back out and stay at Phasma’s, but the prospect of spending more time with Ren is…kind of nice, even though indulging in nice things is the type of thing that gets Armitage hurt. Indulging in nice things is where it all goes wrong. Indulging in nice things is something for nice people, not—not for Armitage. Ren’s going to fuck him over sooner or later.)

“Fine,” Armitage says flatly. “If you must.”

Ren beams at him like a fucking idiot. “Oh, and, uh.” He swings his battered backpack off his shoulder, rummages in it and starts pulling out a file folder. Starts pulling out _Phasma’s_ file folder. “I—”

“Put that away, you cretin,” Armitage hisses. “Fuck.”

Ren looks up at him, hand still and folder half-pulled out of his backpack. “I thought—”

“Not here,” Armitage snaps, conscious that both the kids at Ren’s table are staring at him now.

“I thought—”

“No,” Armitage says, and he turns away, starts rearranging things on the surface of the counter, trusting that Ren can get it together and get a clue all on his own. (They’re at _work_ , they’re at fucking _work_.)

By the time he looks up, Ren has gone back to the table with the kids and is scowling out the window, fingers worrying at a piece of paper in his hand. He’s not looking back at Armitage, which is fine. It’s fine.

(The girl _is_ looking back at Armitage, and she’s glaring.)

 

Ren’s fury has dialed down to a pout by the time Armitage’s shift is done, and it’s not that Armitage had been _unaware_ of his lips before—with lips like that, there’s no way for Armitage to have been unaware of them—but oh, that pout makes him wish he could slide his thumb between Ren’s lips, nudge at his teeth until Ren opens his mouth, press his own lips up against—

“I’m leaving,” Armitage says bluntly.

“I’ll come with you,” Ren says, tripping over his words and very nearly tripping over his feet as he gets out of his chair.

(He leaves the two kids sitting at the coffeeshop, inexplicably, and Armitage does not want to ask because he does not want to know, because knowing things would imply that he cares, because asking would imply that he has questions, and he doesn’t.)

(He _doesn’t._ )

Ren pouts the entire way through an overcrowded bus ride that Armitage otherwise would have enjoyed, because Ren’s thigh is pressed against his. They’re about to move in together, which means the entire thing is falling apart momentarily, and Armitage just wants to enjoy these brief fifteen minutes of Ren’s thigh pressed against his own.

“Look,” Armitage says finally, once they’ve gotten off the bus and Ren’s thigh is no longer anywhere near his. “Do you want to just get it over with?”

Ren’s face goes immediately from _thunderstorm_ to his normal vapid look, and his walking pace slows slightly. “What?”

“Are you having second thoughts?”

“No,” Ren says immediately. “Of course not.”

“We’re meant to be faking an engagement,” Armitage says, after it’s quite apparent Ren isn’t going to add anything to the conversation. “If you’re going to back out, have the courtesy to do it now.”

“I’m not, I’m not,” Ren says in a rush. “I just—I thought you would be proud of me. You thought I would forget the paperwork, and I didn’t, I signed all the places I was supposed to sign, I read absolutely everything, I did those—those tests that you wanted me to do, the ones where you need to pee in a cup and—”

Armitage stops walking, looks at the big hulking mess next to him. “The what now?”

Ren scowls, swings his backpack off his shoulder, and digs through it for the folder. Flips to a point at the beginning of the contract, and holds it out so Armitage can see. “Right there. Full—screening, or testing, or—whatever this is.”

Armitage looks down at the contract. It’s a mandatory requirement for a full STI panel, initialled by Ren in green ink with a remarkably neat hand, the actual test results on a loose page that’s been inserted into the contract (and of course everything is clear, he didn’t need to know that about Ren, but he does now, he does), and Armitage is—Armitage is going to murder Phasma. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, bites down hard on his lip while he texts her.

_Armitage: I can’t believe you._

He looks up at Ren, and Ren is—

—Ren is blushing?

Ren’s ears are starting to go red. He’s not quite making eye contact with Armitage, and he’s not looking at the contract either, and he’s definitely blushing. It’s bizarrely attractive.

“Put that away,” Armitage says, faking a dismissive tone to his voice that he absolutely does not feel, and forcing his eyebrows to lower back to their regular position on his face.

Ren slides the contract back into the folder. Hesitates a moment, still holding out the contract toward Armitage—but when Armitage doesn’t reach for it, Ren puts it back in his backpack.

“You shouldn’t have tried to present me with paperwork at our place of employment,” Armitage continues, keeping his accent clipped.

“…oh.”

(God _damn_ , blushing looks good on Ren.)

Armitage shakes his head, starts walking again.

Ren doesn’t even need to rush to catch up to him, which is irritating. “I mean, I could have said it was a lease agreement. Seeing as we’re moving in together.”

“Why?” _Why make it public at all_ , he means.

“Well, that’s a big step,” Ren says.

Armitage shrugs.

“For relationships, usually.”

A pause.

“I think,” Ren adds.

Armitage stops walking again. Thirty more seconds, and they would have been inside his apartment building, thirty more seconds and they could have had this discussion in private, but sure, it can be a public discussion. Why not. “You _think_?”

Ren ducks his head, scuffs his feet in a manner which looks fucking ridiculous on a man his height. He mumbles something that Armitage can’t hear—but, then, Armitage isn’t really listening, because he’s watching the blush creep back into Ren’s ears, and wondering whether Ren flushes like that all over, or if it’s just in his face.

“Have you never dated anyone before?” Armitage asks slowly.

Ren mutters something at his shoes.

“Answer the question,” Armitage says tersely. “Have you previously been in a relationship of any kind?”

“Look, can we just go up to your place?” Ren says. The scowl is back on his face again.

“Answer the question, Ren.”

“I—what the _fuck_ ,” Ren says. “You can’t just—Hux.” He throws up his hands, takes a deep breath. “There’s been—stuff. Things. I’m trying, it’s just—it’s. Complicated.”

“’ _It’s complicated’_ ,” Armitage mocks. He makes a show of looking Ren up and down. “Football in high school, surrounded by cheerleaders?”

“Track,” Ren says softly. “There weren’t—look. I. Can we—just.”

“I’m fucking done,” Armitage says.

(Ren looks—stricken, which is a hilarious projection of what Armitage is feeling right onto Ren’s face. Inaccurate assumptions like these are kinds of things that keep getting Armitage hurt, because he’s useless and weak and he never learns and, fuck, he just wants to see Ren shirtless, for fuck’s sake. Just one time, one miserable fucking time.)

“Hand it over,” he continues.

“What?” Ren asks.

“The contract,” Armitage snaps. “Hand it the fuck over. If you’re not going to take this seriously, I’ll just—I’ll just tear it up.” This is it right here, and—and fine. If Ren wants to do this on the sidewalk, they can do this on the sidewalk. He’s not letting Ren into his place, he’s not letting Ren see where he used to live, he’s not—he’s not letting Ren make fun of him like this. He’s going to take his goddamn contract back, and Ren’s stupid initialled STI tests, and he’s going to shred everything right here on the sidewalk. He’s going to walk home, alone, with every ounce of pride that he has remaining, and he’s going to get shitfaced at the bar and get a hotel room for the night so he can sleep in a real bed, and he’ll call Phasma tomorrow.

It’s fine.

Ren hands it over. His lower lip is quivering. “D-do you really want out of it that badly?” he asks softly. “I thought—your inheritance—a favour—”

If Ren starts crying, Armitage is going to be furious at him. It’s Armitage’s inheritance—if anybody has the right to cry over it, it’s _him_ , not fucking goddamn _Ren_.

“For cash,” Armitage says. “I know.” All the same, his hand stills before tearing the document in half. He thumbs through the bottom corners of all the pages, and Ren has—Ren has signed everything, initialled every page, crossed his t’s and dotted his i’s.

“Told you I signed it,” Ren says softly. “Y-you have to sign it too.”

“And I will,” Armitage says. His voice is shaking a little, so he swallows it back. “At my leisure.”

“If you have any questions—”

“I wrote it,” Armitage says tartly. The lie comes out smoothly even though he can feel the tremor starting up in his hands. “I don’t.”

“All the same,” Ren says. “If you do…”

“The apartment is this way,” Armitage says. He starts walking. He does not look behind him to see if Ren is coming.

(He doesn’t need to. He can see Ren’s shadow on the sidewalk, keeping pace with his own.)

 

He doesn’t let Ren into his apartment any further than the entrance, claims it’s so Ren doesn’t have to take off his shoes. There aren’t any revelations that can come to Ren from standing in an empty apartment, and there is nothing about Armitage himself that he’s giving up by allowing Ren to be here.

Letting Ren in was a stupid idea, though. Armitage can feel himself relaxing the moment that he puts his key in the lock, can feel his face softening as soon as he steps inside. His contacts start to burn as soon as he gets into the kitchen, a horrific psychosomatic reaction he can’t suppress. It’s too early for him to relax, even though his body thinks it’s time.

(There’s still Ren’s apartment. Ren’s apartment, which will be Armitage’s prison, Ren’s apartment which will be just like home where Armitage won’t be allowed to touch anything or enter certain rooms, will only be able to step on certain areas of the carpet. It’s not that Armitage can’t live like that—he’s lived like that most of his life—but he just doesn’t _want_ to, he’s twenty-seven years old and he just doesn’t _want_ to anymore.)

“Suck it up, asshole,” Armitage says to his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

He puts his now-dry toothbrush into its case, zips up his shaving bag.

Steels himself for the rest of it—whatever it is.

 

Ren helps him haul all his things downstairs.

“You have a cat?” Ren asks.

“I’ve made prior arrangements for her,” Armitage replies. He still feels like he’s forgotten something, but he doesn’t know what—he’s taken out the trash, including the now-ruined air mattress, folded his comforter and sheets and packed them away. He has all his clothes packed up in the plastic bins. He has his backpack and his toiletries. He has his slippers, even though he’ll never let Ren see them. He’ll probably have to buy extra business clothes so he has something to wear when he comes—home. He’ll probably have to switch contact brands so he can wear them longer, avoid wearing his glasses. He’ll probably have to—

“I love cats,” Ren says. “She can live with us.”

“We’ll see,” Armitage says, still focused on his stuff rather than the bullshit coming out of Ren’s mouth. “She doesn’t adjust well to change, and I’m not convinced that this is going to work out.”

“It’s going to work out fine,” Ren says darkly.

“It’s a _fake engagement_ ,” Armitage says. “We have nothing in common.”

“We work together and we’re in the same program and—”

“I assist Poe with managing while you sling coffee around, and I’m finishing my Master’s program while you’re fucking about in—what, Ren, the second time through your third year?”

“I’m doing a minor,” Ren snaps back. “Whatever, Hux.”

It’s good that it’s falling apart already, Armitage thinks, watching Ren hauling the heaviest of Armitage’s bins down the street.

It’s going to be so much easier this way.

 

By the time they get everything over to Ren’s apartment, Armitage is tired and cranky. He can feel sweat starting to trickle down his back, even though he doesn’t think it’s soaked through his shirt yet. Ren’s shirt is soaked through in spots, patches of sweat still visible even on the dark fabric. His shirt is clinging to his back. Armitage wants to pull it off with his teeth.

“I’ll go down for the last load,” Ren says, wiping his hand across his forehead. “You’ve, uh. Your key?”

“I’ve got it,” Armitage says. He pulls out his wallet, opens it up, pulls out the key. (There’s no point putting it on his keychain. This won’t last.) Waits until Ren has gone down the stairs again before putting the key in the lock. It slides in satisfactorily, and the deadbolt makes a decisive _click_ as he turns the key and opens the door.

It smells nice inside—like it’s recently been cleaned, but the faint lemon scent is like actual lemons, instead of lemon-scented cleaner. Armitage steps inside Ren’s apartment, toes off his shoes automatically, looks for the mat—and there’s a mat right to the left, which is exactly half-empty. He looks up to the wall. Three of the six coat hooks are empty too. The kitchen is to the right, small but clean, and there’s a small arch to enter into the apartment proper.

Armitage sets down his duffel and walks under the arch, his socked feet quiet on the hardwood. The room beyond the kitchen is brightly lit because the entire wall to the right is windows, floor to ceiling, and the sunlight is streaming in. Ren’s bed is—Ren’s bed is right there, for some reason, and Armitage looks for another door, another arch, another—something—except that’s the entire room. A large room full of sunlight with Ren’s bed on the left side, bookshelves straight in front of him absolutely filled with books—and nothing else, because Ren’s apartment—

( _Oh fuck_ , Armitage thinks. _Oh, fuck._ )

—Ren’s apartment is a studio apartment.

Armitage is _fucked_.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Hux. You disaster.
> 
> In case you're interested, I'm writing a series of blog posts that act as--companion pieces, or DVD commentary, or however you'd like to consider it, for this piece. [The blog entry for chapter two just went up!](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/03/17/dtd-chapter-two-breakdown/)


	3. a map you thought you knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux moves in.
> 
> Kylo is totally okay and not at all weird about it.

Kylo sets the last of Hux’s bins down outside the door, wipes his sweaty palms off on his new jeans. He can do this. It’s going to be fine. He’s just going to—he’s just going to bring this inside, and make sure that Hux knows where to put his things. He’s not going to stumble over his words or say anything ridiculous, he’s not going to talk too little or too much, he’s just going to—he’s just going to make Hux feel welcome.

(Hux’s apartment had been bigger than his by a significant amount, but he’s not going to worry about that. He’s gonna focus on making this work. He’s going to get Hux his inheritance.)

Kylo shoulders open the door, pulls the bin in, sets it off to the side, and Hux—Hux is just standing there. His duffel bag has been abandoned mere steps in front of the door, and Hux is in the middle of the apartment, and he’s just—there. Silent.

“There’s really good light,” Kylo offers. “On account of the windows.” He wipes his palms on his jeans again. Even though the space difference between Hux’s place and his hadn’t seemed like a big deal initially—maybe it is, to Hux. Maybe it’s a dealbreaker. Maybe Hux is—maybe Hux is willing to walk out rather than actually live with Kylo in his own space. Kylo sidesteps the abandoned duffel bag and comes into the main room, stopping just a step or two behind Hux. “Full sunlight most of the day, it’s really good for painting.”

Hux doesn’t say anything. Kylo can’t tell from this angle if he’s staring straight ahead at Kylo’s bookshelves—fuck, he hopes Rey hasn’t done something embarrassing with the spines—or if he’s just looking around.

“It’s, uh. It’s a little hot in the summer,” Kylo continues, too nervous to be able to stop himself from talking, because what if Hux doesn’t actually like it here? “The air conditioning doesn’t do so well with the high ceilings, but it’s totally worth it because the light is so good. You can—you can paint in sunlight instead of artificial light if you want, but I have artificial lights set up too.” He wonders now if he should have left his work area alone—partly because it makes the apartment look less empty when all his canvasses are set out drying, partly because he wonders if Hux will like his work. It’s too late for that now, though—Rey and Finn had helped him pack everything up and put it away, and now his apartment just looks vacant.

Hux’s hand twitches slightly at his side, but he doesn’t say anything.

“The bathroom is just through the closet there—”

“I saw it,” Hux says, his voice tight.

Kylo swallows. Waits, but Hux doesn’t say anything else. “I cleaned out the left side of the closet for you, but if you need more space, you can just—you can just let me know, and I’ll—box up more of my stuff.” He touches his pocket habitually, even though he hadn’t written anything down in advance for this, because he has to be able to just—to just talk to Hux. Or to be able to stop talking to Hux. Fuck, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do—he feels as though it’s blatantly obvious he’s never had a roommate before, like there’s some unspoken code he doesn’t know about that he’s continually fucking up.

Hux is moving now, turning in a slow circle, eyes tracking over everything in the apartment, and there’s not much—there’s really not much, and it’s the first time Kylo has ever felt self-conscious about the place. He’s always loved it, right from day one, because of the damn windows, and right now, he’s wondering if the windows are going to be enough to make Hux love it too. They’re just windows.

(Maybe Kylo is just an idiot.)

“Your, uh, work area,” Kylo continues, retreating back into art because at least that’s something they have in common. “You can set up what you need by the windows here, the light’s really good for painting, and—”

“I have space on campus,” Hux says. He turns, looks out the windows. “I do—I do installation work, I need—it’s not—I can’t just—” His hand twitches at his side again. “I don’t need space here.”

“Right,” Kylo says. “I mean, I knew that. I just—yeah, yeah. You obviously—you obviously don’t need space here. Cool.” _Fuck_ , he’s doing such a bad job of this, there’s no way he’s actually going to be able to hold it together and behave like a reasonable human being because _Hux_ is _here_ and holy shit, Kylo’s heart is pounding a mile a minute and nothing’s even happened yet—

(nothing’s going to happen)

—and this is bad, this is really bad.

“Just spread out like you usually do,” Hux says. “I mean—you don’t need my permission. It’s your place.”

“It’s yours too,” Kylo says softly.

“That reminds me,” Hux says, mouth tightening into a thin line. He goes back to his duffel bag and pulls an envelope out of the side pocket, presses it into Kylo’s hands. “Here,” he says. “Just. Let me know when that’s—out.” His teeth flash out for a moment, dig into his bottom lip before his tongue darts out and sweeps across. “I’m—I’m going to run a bath.”

Kylo’s brain short-circuits. It’s too much, it’s all too much at once—Hux’s teeth and his tongue, Hux having a bath in Kylo’s tub, Hux—Hux even just _being_ here. “Alright,” he says. It feels like his mouth isn’t working properly, like he can’t enunciate any of his words.

He doesn’t even think to look in the envelope until Hux has already gathered up his bag and disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind him. It’s stuffed full of cash—crisp hundreds that all look new, and he doesn’t want this—he doesn’t need this, he doesn’t—shit, how much is even _in_ here? Kylo considers his options. He can give the envelope back, like, right now—but then Hux is going to feel like Kylo’s rejecting him, which isn’t what Kylo’s doing, not at all—and option two is—option two is—well, whatever. He’ll worry about it later. He crosses over to the built-in storage across the far wall, pulls open one of the drawers, and puts the envelope of cash in it. Shuts the drawer.

There.

Now he doesn’t have to think about it, now he can just think about other stuff, like—like the part where he can hear Hux running a bath really clearly even though the bathroom door is shut, can hear the precise moment the water stops. There’s a pause for a few seconds— _Hux is undressing_ , he thinks, and he swallows—and then he can hear the movement of the water as Hux gets into the tub.

He needs to focus on something else, other than just—standing here listening to Hux bathe. There has to be something else for him to focus on. Something like…something like…his bookcase. His bookcase, and the obviously empty spots in the shelves.

_Kylo: Hey, I’m missing books._

_Rey: yeah I rearranged for you_

_Kylo: No, they’re actually missing. Gone._

_Rey: whaaaaaaaaaaaaat no way._

_Kylo: …_

_Kylo: I saw your backpack. It’s packed full of my stuff._

_Kylo: I just need to know what you took; I start class Monday._

_Rey: didn’t take any txtbks._

_Kylo: Inventory, please._

_Rey: siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh_

_[Rey has sent a picture.]_

_Kylo: Okay._

_Kylo: Don’t let Leia catch you with those last two, huh?_

_Rey: I’m twelve._

_Kylo: I am aware. My point stands._

_Rey: hows grumpypants_

_Kylo: His name is Hux._

_Rey: pls he looks like he eats lemons as a hobby_

_Rey: does he like it??? The place._

_Kylo: I don’t know. I don’t think so._

There’s a slight splashing of water from behind the bathroom door again. Kylo can feel his ears going red, and he sets his phone down, starts re-shelving everything to close up the gaps that Rey has left, and also to make some more space for Hux in case he needs it.

_Rey: okay that’s bs. He can’t not like your place, your place is amazing._

_Kylo: Thank you for your vote of confidence._

_Kylo: I dunno._

_Kylo: Tell me this isn’t a mistake?_

_Rey: obvs it’s a huge mistake_

_Rey: but it’s a good idea_

_Rey: as long as you don’t forget to tell him you like him._

_Kylo: I won’t forget._

There’s no way he _could_ forget, it’s engraved right into his heart at this point. And he’s going to do it. It’s just that telling Hux he actually likes him right after establishing a fake engagement seems way, way too soon. That seems like—a two months from now problem. Or maybe six. Or maybe _never_ , because maybe Hux will say something first if Kylo just waits him out. Hux will probably say something. He seems pro-active. He’ll probably just say something on his own, without Kylo needing to do anything. Kylo can wait it out. Hux will say something.

Decision made, Kylo exhales, and then continues rearranging his books. If he hurries, he can probably get another shelf cleared off before Hux is out of the bath.

 

It’s been two hours. Kylo has re-organized his entire bookcase, double-shelved everything, and dusted both the books and the empty spaces, and Hux still isn’t out of the tub. It’s awful. Kylo has resorted to pacing-but-not-pacing in the middle of the apartment, because every time he tells himself he’s just going to chill, Hux shifts in the tub and Kylo can hear the water moving, and he has to start pacing so that he can stop thinking about it. Periodically, Hux drains some of the water out of the tub, and Kylo thinks this is it, he’s finally finished his bath—and then Hux just puts more water in, and Kylo goes back to pacing just so he doesn’t think about—about Hux, naked and pale with wet hair and a droplet of water running down his neck. Every time Kylo looks at the bed, he blushes, because Hux is going to be there tonight, he’s actually going to be sharing a bed with Hux and he can’t _not_ look at the bed because it’s a studio apartment and there’s nowhere else for his eyes to go—

Kylo’s stomach rumbles. Okay. He’s hungry. He’ll get food for both of them. He can do this.

He opens his fridge.

He cannot do this.

There’s nothing in there except three pitchers of lemonade and two containers of milk. The lemonade is Rey’s doing— _a couple lemons for cleaning is NOT two bags of them, Kylo_ —and the milk is the only thing Kylo regularly buys, because he usually eats on campus.

Okay.

He’s going to have to order food.

He can do this.

(He can’t do this.)

Kylo stands outside the bathroom for a full fifteen minutes before hesitantly raising his hand to knock. He taps at the door tentatively, squeezes his eyes shut the moment he can hear Hux moving in the bath, and then taps on the door again in case Hux hadn’t heard him the first time.

“Come in,” Hux says, raising his voice so it carries.

“Uh, I’m good,” Kylo says, tongue threatening to stop completely, because he can’t actually have heard that correctly, Hux couldn’t have actually—invited him in, and even if he had, Kylo couldn’t—Kylo couldn’t actually _go_.

Hux mutters something that Kylo can’t hear through the door.

They stand there in silence for a moment before Hux raises his voice again. He sounds—tired. “What did you want, Kylo?”

“I’m ordering food,” Kylo says all in a rush. “Pizza? Pepperoni?”

“Yeah, sure,” Hux says.

Kylo nods even though Hux can’t see it and starts scrolling through the list of restaurants nearby, trying to figure out which one will be the best. Even though Kylo likes eating the stuff that’s absolutely drowning in grease, there’s no way Hux is going to want that. Hux is probably going to want something better, something fancier, something that isn’t just deli meat drowning in pre-shredded cheese, something that’s—

“No, wait,” Hux calls from the bathroom, voice muffled.

Kylo looks up at the closed door. “Uh, yeah?”

“I don’t want pepperoni pizza.” Hux says it like he’s making an announcement instead of just stating a food preference.

“Okay,” Kylo says. It’s not like it matters, he’ll order whatever the fuck Hux wants, even if it’s—

“Pineapple,” Hux says. “Tomato sauce, pineapple, cheese. That’s it.”

—okay, it’s definitely weird.

Kylo exhales. “Okay, Hux. I’ll order that for you.”

Silence from the other side of the door.

“Should be about twenty or thirty minutes,” Kylo says.

He doesn’t get a response.

 

Kylo has his work area about half-assembled by the time the pizza arrives. He tips the driver, brings the pizza in and sets it down on the breakfast bar. Eases the boxes open enough just to confirm that the orders are correct, and then shuts the boxes again so that the heat doesn’t escape. He—doesn’t have stools. Well, he has one, but it’s got paint dripped on it and it’s slightly uneven and he’ll just—he’ll just slide that up to the breakfast bar and then Hux can sit on it if he wants to.

“Pizza’s here,” he calls out, because he’s terrified to go back over there and knock just in case—just in case Hux is out of the bath, just in case the door swings open, just in case Kylo accidentally sees—

Kylo scrubs his palms off on his jeans. Again. He really wishes he could stop fucking sweating for just two seconds, because it’s making everything awkward when it’s already awkward enough. The easels are at slightly different angles than normal, because he’s tried to leave more space at the breakfast bar just in case Hux wants to use it, and it makes everything seem off-balance. Kylo is in this way too deep, and Hux has only been here for a handful of hours, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to survive the rest of the night, much less the rest of the weekend, without spontaneously combusting.

He pulls a jug of lemonade from the fridge and puts it on the counter along with two glasses. Pulls out plates, and hesitates for a moment over the cutlery drawer before getting out a knife and a fork for each of them just in case. There are cloth napkins shoved in the back of one of his drawers, so he sets those out too.

“Lemonade?” Hux asks, and Kylo turns without thinking about it.

Turns and stops dead.

Hux is fully dressed, but not in a way that Kylo has ever seen him before—he’s wearing loose pyjama pants in a blue and white plaid, tied with a drawstring to keep them up on his narrow hips. He’s wearing an old threadbare tshirt in a soft grey, _Arkanis University_ written across the chest in white letters that are faded and starting to peel off. He’s—he’s wearing _glasses_ , thick black-rimmed ones perched on his nose. He has one of Kylo’s towels draped around his neck, and his hair is completely devoid of product, damp and slightly fluffy around the edges and longer than Kylo realized because he’s only ever seen Hux’s hair slicked back (and that one, memorable time last week where he’d came to Hux’s studio and a chunk of it had fallen across Hux’s face and all Kylo wanted to do was put it back, but now it’s _all_ out of place and Kylo never wants to see him any other way).

“Uh,” Kylo says.

Hux comes over to the breakfast bar, skirting around Kylo. It’s not just that Kylo can see his wrists or his forearms—he sees those plenty at work, because Hux habitually rolls the sleeves of his dress shirts up—but Kylo can actually see Hux’s upper arm, _past_ his elbows, and his skin is so much paler there, lightly scattered with freckles and—

Hux leans over the breakfast bar and snags the pitcher, pours himself a glass of lemonade. He doesn’t need to rise up on the balls of his feet to do any of that because he’s just as tall as Kylo is, but he does anyway, and Kylo can see that he’s wearing black moccasins, the suede soft-looking and comfortable and Kylo wants—ugh, he wants to touch, he wants to touch Hux _so badly_ right now.

(Hux tips his head back when he drinks, and Kylo cannot stop looking at him, at the rhythmic way his throat moves when he swallows.)

Hux’s facial expression is—odd, when he puts the empty glass back on the counter. Before Kylo can decipher the slackness of his mouth, Hux ducks his head, busies himself pouring another glass, turning to the side so that his hair swings down and hides his face.

“This is really good,” he says. He leans over the counter again and grabs the second glass, fills it for Kylo, and then pushes it toward him, hand stilling as he sees the two pizza boxes sitting on the counter.

“It’s home-made,” Kylo says. (He swears he’ll let Rey steal every single book he has if he can just take credit for the lemonade she’s made that Hux likes, that’s all he wants in this world right now is just to take credit for something Hux actually _likes_.)

Hux blinks rapidly for a moment, pushes his hair back off his face. His mouth still has that odd look to it. “You ordered two pizzas?”

“Well, yeah,” Kylo says. “The one on the left is yours, I just ordered the biggest ones they had and I figured we could fridge the leftovers.”

Hux does that odd blinking thing again, leans heavily against the counter. He flips the left-hand box open, peers inside. “Oh,” he says.

Fuck, Kylo is staring again. He takes a swig of lemonade, hopes Hux hasn’t noticed he’s being weird again.

It _is_ weird, though.

Everything about this is weird.

 

They eat their pizza standing at the breakfast bar. Kylo uses his fork to lift individual slices and slide them over onto his plate, but Hux forgoes cutlery and plates entirely, eating his pizza directly out of the box. Hux is finished eating first, and neatly stacks his extra slices onto his plate, wraps them in plastic wrap, and breaks down his pizza box to stick it into the garbage. When he’s finished, he rummages around in one of his bins for a while.

“Beer?” he asks.

Kylo looks over.

Hux is crouching on the floor. He’s holding three beer bottles by the neck in his left hand, and is extending a fourth in his right out to Kylo. “It’s room temperature,” he says. “Well, maybe a little more because it was outside today. But it should still be decent.”

“Oh,” Kylo says. “Uh, yeah. Please.” He wipes his hand on a paper towel, takes the proffered beer.

(Their fingers don’t touch this time, and Kylo hates it.)

“I’ll put this away,” Hux says. He goes into the kitchen, opens the fridge door, and bends down to peer inside.

Kylo looks away. He did not—he did _not_ need to know how skinny Hux is, didn’t need to know that the pyjama pants don’t hide anything—except in the act of looking away, Kylo ends up looking at the bed, and it’s—it’s the bed that they’re going to sleep in tonight. The bed that they’re going to _share_. He looks back at the fridge, and Hux is still bent over, pants clinging to his—

Kylo takes a deep drink of his warm beer, grimaces. Tries to calm down. It’ll be fine, somehow. It has to be fine.

(He hasn’t shared a bed with anyone, ever, and he has a brief moment of fear wondering if it’s somehow possible to be _bad_ at it, if there’s some kind of secret code or something that he’s supposed to know. He doesn’t know if he moves in his sleep, or if he snores, or if he does something otherwise obnoxious, and—oh shit, Hux is going to know if he does, there’s no way for Hux _not_ to know, there’s no way to—)

_what if he gets hard in his sleep_

The thought comes so suddenly out of the middle of nowhere that Kylo actually shudders, and then looks over to see if Hux had noticed—which he hadn’t, apparently, because he’s still digging around in the fridge, moving things around and clinking beer bottles together.

Okay. Okay. Kylo’s gonna figure this out. He’ll just—he’ll just have to jack off before he goes to bed. He’ll shower at night to cover up the sound of it, keep as quiet as possible, and he’ll just have to hope that jacking off at night will be enough to prevent him from having an obvious hardon in the morning. He’ll sleep facing away from Hux. That way, even if it does happen—which it shouldn’t—Hux won’t be able to see it.

(But what if Hux _does_ see it?)

Hux swings the fridge door shut, pads out into the main room, and then drags one of his boxes back to the closet, and starts unpacking.

Kylo swallows. Packages up the remainder of his pizza, and breaks down the box the same way Hux had broken down his own, lest Hux think he’s—lazy, or clumsy, or something. When he sticks his pizza in the fridge, he sees that Hux has neatly organized it—split the fridge left to right, the same way Kylo had split the closet. Half of the beer is on Kylo’s side, half of the beer is on Hux’s side. Kylo frowns. He thinks, initially, that Hux had just put the beer _into_ the fridge—but no, there’s a very clear demarcation zone down the middle of the fridge, and Hux has loaded half the beer onto Kylo’s side. Kylo reaches in, nudges one of the two remaining lemonade pitchers over onto Hux’s side so that they’re equal. Hesitates a moment in the kitchen—but Hux doesn’t need his help, and so Kylo goes back to what he was doing.

Once he has his work area unpacked again, Kylo actually starts painting. He’s not taking any art classes in summer session, but can’t afford to be rusty by the time he starts up again in September. He’d struggled so much last semester trying to capture the depth and vastness of space in acrylics, but damn it, he’s going to get it over the summer, even if it kills him.

His eyes keep wandering away from his reference photos, and over to Hux. He can’t see Hux from here—he’s been standing in the closet for most of the last hour. There’s the sound of papers rustling, and Kylo looks back to his painting. He wonders if Hux is reading the contract, and if he’s reading the contract, if he’s going to want to discuss—

“Which is your side?” Hux asks.

Kylo looks up from the nebula he’s painting. “What?”

Hux looks over at him. “Your _side_ , Ren,” he says.

“Uh,” Kylo says. “Whatever—whatever side is fine.”

Hux sighs, and sets to unmaking the bed that Kylo and Finn had painstakingly made earlier that day, untucking all the sheets on the side closest to the bathroom, and folding the sheets back over themselves onto what is, apparently, Kylo’s side of the bed. The moment Hux’s hands reach for the pillows, Kylo freezes—but it’s too late to do or say anything, so Kylo stands there in horror, still holding his paintbrush, as he watches Hux methodically move every single pillow from one side of the bed to the other.

When he comes across Kylo’s journal—underneath the bottom-most pillow, centred there because Kylo hadn’t known where else to put it, had slid it back under there completely out of habit, because that was where every single one of his journals _went_ —Kylo can’t breathe. His chest constricts completely, and his stomach falls through the floor. Hux is holding Kylo’s journal in his hand. All he needs to do is flip it open, because any one of the pages will dialogue the depths of Kylo’s obsession with Hux, any one of those pages is an ode to the way the light shines off Hux’s hair, the elegance of his narrow hands, and the mathematical precision of his sideburns and—except Hux doesn’t flip it open at all, doesn’t even pause, just sets the journal down on top of the stack of pillows on Kylo’s side, and that’s—that’s good, that’s perfect. There would be absolutely nothing worse than Hux opening his journal and seeing right inside Kylo’s head like that, and now Kylo has been spared.

When Hux’s side of the bed is devoid of everything except the bottom sheet, Hux goes into the closet, and emerges carrying a comforter, sheet, and pillow of his own. He proceeds to make his half of the bed using his own pillow, his own sheet, and his own comforter, making a deliberate point of folding everything in half with the fold toward Kylo’s side so that Hux is completely enclosed on his own side, and cannot, under any circumstances, touch Kylo in any way.

Kylo frowns, looks back down at his painting. He wishes that Hux had just opened his journal. That would have been significantly better than this.

Also, there’s paint on his new jeans.

_Fuck._

He scowls at the canvas, at his brush, at his palette. He should just dump paint all over the entire thing and start over again, but he’d cleaned up all his tarps and pitched them out earlier in the day because he didn’t want Hux to know that dumping paint over his canvasses when he’s irritated is part of his process.

“I won’t keep the light on for much longer,” he says instead.

Hux makes an indistinct noise. He’s sitting on the bed with his back against the wall, and he’s got his laptop balanced on his thighs, the blue-white light shining up at his face and reflecting off his glasses. The glasses change the shape of his face, somehow—his cheekbones look more obvious, his hair brighter, his eyes more mysterious.

Kylo scrunches his face, looks back at his canvas. The nebula looks flat and the colours are all off. There’s probably no salvaging the damn thing. Kylo suppresses the urge to toss paint at it, and sticks his paintbrush back into his coffee cup, scrapes his palette off, and cleans everything up better than he usually does, just because he doesn’t want to look like he’s—messy, or disorganized, or any of the stuff that he usually is when he’s focused on painting. He sighs, looks over toward the bed, tries to avoid staring at Hux even though staring at Hux is all he wants to do.

He’s not going to be weird about this. He’s going to be fine.

He’s going to have a shower, he’s going to get himself off in the shower as quietly and efficiently as possible, he’s going to scrub the hell out of everything so that there’s absolutely no way for Hux to know what he’s done, and then he’s going to take Hux’s example, put on underwear and pyjama pants and a shirt, and he’s going to sleep on his own side curled toward the wall, and it’s going to be perfectly fine. Everything about this is going to be fine.

He wonders if Hux will start a conversation when Kylo goes to the closet—they’re so close now, with Kylo standing right here and Hux mere steps away from him—but Hux just stares at his computer, and Kylo searches for suitable clothing in silence, finally pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a tshirt from some obscure metal band he can hardly remember listening to. He can smell Hux’s laundry detergent on his clothes, and the scent is intoxicating, distracting. He doesn’t realize he’s breathing shallowly until he gets into the bathroom, shuts the door, and sags back against it, feeling light-headed.

(He can hear Hux typing on his laptop, his fingertips striking sharply against the keys.)

Kylo starts the shower on full blast even though the water pressure feels like it’ll tear the skin off his back, gets in while it’s still cold. There are so many things that have changed just in the bathroom—Hux’s shaving bag is sitting on the bathroom counter, Hux’s shampoo and conditioner are sitting beside Kylo’s own. There are a few other bottles tucked on one of the shelves, and even the towel Hux had used is hung on the towel rack, folded differently than Kylo usually folds his own.

Kylo suppresses a groan. Hux is _everywhere_ , and he’s so different from Kylo had expected. Every fantasy Kylo has ever had of Hux has been Hux as _Hux_ , Hux how Kylo sees him at work, strict and buttoned-up and acerbic, and now Hux is—Hux is mere steps away from Kylo, Hux is on Kylo’s _bed_ , with his glasses perched on his nose and his hair loose and falling around his face, with his pants hanging loose on his hips. Kylo swallows, closes his eyes, remembers how Hux had looked bent over at the fridge, how his pants had skimmed over his—his legs and—his—his butt—

When Kylo reaches down to touch himself, he’s already hard. He closes his fist around his cock, remembering the way Hux had looked crouched down, digging beers out of one of his boxes, or leaning over the breakfast bar, or even just how he had looked—standing there, right in the middle of Kylo’s apartment. He opens his eyes. The bottles of shampoo are the ones that Hux had massaged into his scalp a few scant hours ago, and Hux’s—oh, hell, Hux’s toothbrush is right there, and it’s been inside his _mouth_ , pushing past his lips to get all over Hux’s tongue and teeth and—

Kylo presses his right hand over his mouth as he jerks himself off with his left, tightening his grip on his cock and biting into his index finger as he comes. His orgasm is so sudden that his knees actually threaten to give out on him, and he sinks awkwardly down to the bottom of the tub, turning to face the spray to wash away all the evidence.

(They’ve been sharing the space for less than twelve hours, and Kylo has already been reduced to jello.)

Kylo’s ears are still pink by the time he’s finished his shower, and he’s certain Hux is going to know what he’s done if he goes out there like this—so he shaves his face, and rinses out the tub again, actually wipes it down with his washcloth before tossing the washcloth into the dirty laundry. (Hux has brought his own laundry hampers, three of them, lined up neatly next to Kylo’s. It’s so intimate to know that Hux’s dirty clothes are _right there_ , and Kylo blushes all over again.)

He looks at himself in the mirror one more time before he leaves, runs his hand through his damp hair and tries to come up with a plan. If Hux is still on his computer, Kylo will ask him about what he’s doing. If Hux isn’t doing anything, Kylo will ask him if he wants to watch Netflix. Maybe Hux will fall asleep on his shoulder. That would be really nice.

When Kylo opens the bathroom door, the light on Hux’s side of the bed is off. Hux is asleep.

He’s missed his chance.

Kylo crawls into his side of the bed as quietly as he can, plugs in his cellphone and sets it on the floor, and flicks off the light. Now that they’re in darkness, Kylo is hyper-conscious of everything—every single noise the bed makes as he moves, how _much_ he moves as he tries to get comfortable. Kylo pulls his blankets over so that they’re hanging heavily over his side of the bed, but even then, he’s too hot. He’s not used to sleeping in clothes, is used to just sprawling out on top of the covers naked. He stares at the ceiling. It’s strange being able to hear Hux breathing beside him, slow and regular. Kylo aches with how much he wants to touch Hux, how much he wants to just pull Hux against him and bury his head in Hux’s neck.

Kylo sighs, rolls over to face the bookcases. He doesn’t know what he’d expected, but it’s not this—Hux being so close and yet so unapproachable, Hux being his usual acidic self but also, at times, softer somehow, Hux being—

Kylo winces. He can feel himself starting to get hard again. He takes a deep breath, breathing as quietly as he can, and then another. Starts counting in Latin just as a distraction. He’ll count to one hundred, and if he’s still awake, he’ll check the time.

It’s midnight.

He counts in Greek. Visualizes an entire redecoration of his apartment now that he’s seen it through Hux’s eyes, catalogued all its deficiencies through the lift of Hux’s eyebrows.

Checks the time again. It’s two thirty. He opens up one of his textbooks on his phone, starts reading.

At three fifteen am, Kylo nearly drops the phone on his face as he finally starts to drift off. He sets his phone down, closes his eyes, takes another deep breath—

—and beside him, Hux rolls over, the weight of his comforter-wrapped body settling against Kylo’s back.

Kylo freezes, holds his breath. Any moment now, Hux is going to realize what he’s done and move away. Any moment now, Hux is going to wake up and realize that they’re touching. Any moment now—

—but Kylo holds his breath until there are spots in front of his eyes, and when he finally, shakily, exhales, Hux still doesn’t move.

Kylo closes his eyes, focuses on breathing regularly and not getting hard, focuses on…

 

When Kylo wakes up, the sun is streaming in from the windows, he’s pleasantly warm and comfortable, and his mouth is pressed up against something hard and unyielding. He blinks, forces his eyes open. He’s rolled over at some point in the night, and his face is—right against Hux’s knee—

“Shit,” Kylo curses. He rolls over and pushes away at the same time, forgets he’s only got half the width of the bed to work with and promptly falls out the other side of the bed and onto the floor in a tangle of blankets and limbs.

“Do you always wake up like this?” Hux asks dryly from atop the bed.

Kylo struggles up into a sitting position, tries to untangle himself from the mess of blankets. He feels completely disoriented, but pushes himself to his feet anyway, and Hux is—Hux is sitting cross-legged on the bed with his laptop in front of him, and a fresh cup of tea on the plastic bin he’s using as a nightstand. There’s a damp spot on the leg of his pyjamas where Kylo’s mouth had been.

“’m sorry,” Kylo mutters. His entire face is hot, and his hands are too clumsily to fold up the blankets even though that’s what he’s trying to do.

“Mmm,” Hux says noncommittally. He looks up at Kylo over the frame of his glasses.

“I really didn’t mean to,” Kylo continues. “I was trying—not to roll over, I guess I must have just—”

Hux finally breaks eye contact with him, stares back down at his computer. “No apology necessary,” he says in his usual crisp accent. “Accidents happen.”

“What if—” Kylo starts.

Hux just stares at him.

Kylo swallows, and doesn’t say anything.

 

_Kylo: I can’t do this._

_Rey: sure u can_

_Kylo: I literally can’t._

_Kylo: It’s awful. I can_

_Kylo: never mind._

_Rey: wat?_

_Kylo: I said never mind._

_Rey: no seriously tho_

_Rey: just tell me_

_Rey: unless it has to do with dicks, then don’t_

_Kylo: REY_

_Kylo: It doesn’t._

_Rey: so?_

_Rey: wat?_

_Kylo: but I can see his nipples through his shirt and it’s awful, he just wears these tshirts all the time and they’re basically transparent and he’s not DOING anything, he’s just sitting on the bed and looking at stuff on his laptop and drinking tea and I just_

_Kylo: It’s only Saturday._

_Rey: omg_

_Rey: chill_

Living with Hux is pure torment, because Hux never leaves the apartment. Every time Kylo turns around, Hux is there. Kylo would be absolutely fine if he could just—think about something else for a couple hours, think of anybody else—but he can’t, because all he can think about is Hux.

Hux, with his damp hair falling over his face, chewing at his bottom lip as he stares at something on his computer.

Hux, stretching his arms above his head, his nipples visible through his shirt.

Hux, in the bathtub for hours at a time, driving Kylo completely to distraction because how is he supposed to paint when he knows Hux is naked in there? (And there’s no one he can talk to about that last bit either, because that’s not the type of thing he’s going to be sharing with Rey.)

Kylo lies in bed half the night listening to Hux breathe beside him and simultaneously hoping Hux rolls over soon and dreading the time that he does, because Hux’s body pressed up against Kylo’s back is the best part about sharing a bed together, but Hux never acknowledges it when they’re awake and Kylo doesn’t even know if Hux is aware that it’s happening. Even once classes start up, Hux is always awake before Kylo, the bed always empty by the time Kylo’s alarm starts buzzing under his pillow.

Kylo starts keeping his towel beside the bed—because, yeah, Hux is usually in the kitchen by the time Kylo gets up, and there isn’t really a clear line of sight from the kitchen to the bed, but the sweatpants don’t do anything to hide how hard Kylo is most mornings, and at least he can hold the towel in front of himself as he escapes into the bathroom.

The thing is—jacking off isn’t helping. Cold showers aren’t helping. Long days at school aren’t helping. Hux is just so goddamn _Hux_ about everything, aloof and unapproachable and _soft_ , and Kylo is so turned on all the time that he can’t concentrate on anything except for the way the sunlight plays across Hux’s hair. As a last ditch, desperate effort, Kylo stops at the closest gym on the way home. He signs up for a membership in the hopes that maybe if he just, like, runs for an hour a day, his body will be too fucking tired to get it up, and he can stop being so fucking _stressed_ all the time.

(Hux is going to hear him, sooner or later. He always covers his mouth with his hand, and he always has the shower running, and he keeps the actual wanking portion of getting off as quiet and quick as he can, but it’s absolute hell. He’s caught himself breathing Hux’s name into his hand more times than he can count. There are only ten steps between the bathroom door and Hux’s side of the bed, and Kylo wishes he knew how to do something about it. He wishes he had the courage to actually say Hux’s name and see if he notices, except if he _does_ say Hux’s name and Hux _doesn’t_ notice—or, worse, if Hux doesn’t _care_ —it will shatter Kylo into a million pieces.)

Kylo lets the gym sign him up for a year, gives them his credit card number, and signs all the pieces of paper.

“Another contract?”

Kylo looks up. The woman talking to him is leaning up against the counter watching him fill in the form, and even leaning, he’s pretty sure she’s taller than he is.

“I’ve never had a contract here before,” Kylo says. “I’m new, you must have me confused with someone else.”

“Perhaps,” she says, but she keeps looking at him, and her gaze is so direct that Kylo has to break eye contact with her, look back down at his paperwork.

“I’m done, I think,” he says, and he pushes his paperwork back across the counter.

“I’ll take him for his tour,” the blonde woman says to the shorter woman at the desk.

“I don’t need a tour,” Kylo says quickly. “I’m just—I’m just here for cardio, I can see the machines from here.”

Her eyebrow lifts.

“Stress relief,” Kylo says. “It’s just—I need. Distraction.”

She looks down at the paperwork Kylo has filled out, and then looks back at him. “What could you possibly need distraction from?”

“Hot roommate,” Kylo blurts—and that’s how he knows he’s not sleeping, because he’s instantly horrified at himself for having even mentioned it, actually brings his hand up to his mouth as though he can shove the words back in, because he can’t believe he’s even—

“Oh, he is, is he?” The blonde chuckles, gestures at him. “Come with me. Locker rooms are back over this way.”

Kylo blinks after her a moment, because she’d—she’d said _he_. Kylo could have meant absolutely anyone—and yet, somehow, this blonde woman has seen right into Kylo’s heart and understands that he’s as gay as fuck, and he would do absolutely anything for her in this moment, including following her on this gym tour that he literally does not care about, because he only signed his life away for a year so he can run on a machine and try to stop obsessing over Hux.

“Time’s ticking,” she says from ahead of him, and Kylo shoulders his bag, and hurries to catch up.

 

The running helps, at first. Kylo has philosophy in the morning, the library at lunch, religious studies in the afternoon, and then the gym on the way home, where he runs until he feels like his legs are going to dissolve and then heads home. He lies awake until three most nights, listening to Hux breathe and waiting for Hux to roll against him, anticipating the distant pressure of Hux’s comforter-wrapped body against his own as though it’s the only thing that’s keeping him alive, and every night, he realizes that this is the night where it won’t happen, this is the night that he’s not going to get it—but he does, somehow. Every single night, he gets it—Hux’s body pressed against his through layers and layers of blankets, the vague concept of Hux’s weight against his back.

And Kylo thinks he’s got it covered. Sure, he’s not sleeping that much, but when has he ever? And yeah, it’s a little hard to pay attention in class sometimes, because he keeps thinking about the way Hux’s teeth bite into his lower lip when he’s concentrating on something, the way his hair falls forward into his eyes when he hasn’t styled it, how it might feel if Kylo reached out and pushed it out of the way for him. And fine, so, he had dozed off on the treadmill today, very nearly fallen off the fucking thing before he’d regained his balance—and when he had gotten his balance back, the blonde lady had been glaring at him so intensely that Kylo had immediately given up and gone home—but he isn’t expecting anything serious to happen until he swipes open his phone on the way up the stairs, and receives a notification that he’d failed the exam he’d written earlier in the week.

And he’s not expecting, when he pushes open the door, the string of profanity coming from inside the apartment.

“Don’t—” Hux says sharply.

Kylo shuts his eyes on instinct. “Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Just a second,” Hux says, sounding out of breath.

Kylo can hear things being moved around, hears the quick slap of Hux’s bare feet on the floor heading toward the bathroom—silence, during which Kylo’s heart thuds so loud in his chest he’s certain it’s audible—and then muffled footsteps as Hux comes back.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something,” Hux says, as though he’s not the one that had been doing—whatever the fuck he’d been doing in the apartment when Kylo hadn’t been there.

Kylo cracks his eyes open tentatively. Hux looks stressed—his hair is mussed, the colour high in his cheeks, and there’s a smudge of something on the back of his hand that Kylo can’t quite make out.

(The moment Hux sees him looking, he tucks his hand behind his back.)

“Failed my exam the other day,” Kylo says after a moment. “Just found out. Never got a mark that low in my life, it’s been—kind of a shit afternoon, to be perfectly honest.”

“Ah,” Hux says. “I mean, it’s just one exam.”

Kylo frowns at him, unable to tell whether Hux is making fun of him or whether Hux is serious. “It’s still an exam,” he says. “It’s an exam, and I failed it, Hux.”

Hux inhales like he’s about to say something—and then he looks behind himself briefly, and sighs. “Look,” he says. “You’re home earlier than I expected, and I was kind of in the middle of…a thing. Can I just convince you to wait for me in the lobby, and then I’ll buy you supper at the bar? If you need to—whine about your test results, or whatever, that’s fine.”

Kylo looks at him. “What?”

Hux rolls his eyes. “Did you or did you not hear me, Ren?”

“I heard you,” Kylo says. “And, uh. Yeah. Yeah, I’ll come to dinner with you.”

Hux nods once at him, sharply, and then waits.

After a moment, Kylo clues in that he’s meant to be leaving. He backs out of the apartment into the hallway, walks down to the lobby. Leans against the wall, opens his phone, and stares at his failing grade, trying to figure out how the hell he’s going to fix it.

(He does not think about what Hux had been doing in the apartment when Kylo hadn’t been there.)

(…he doesn’t think about it _much_.)

 

When Hux comes downstairs, his coat is hanging off his shoulders, but he’s still wearing his pajama pants and his faded _Arkanis University_ shirt underneath. His hair is combed back like he’d wet it down and run his fingers through it, but it’s not plastered to his head like usual. (Kylo is pretty sure he hasn’t seen a visible part in Hux’s hair once since Hux had moved in.) He hesitates when he gets into the lobby, then takes his glasses off his face and wipes them off with a cloth he pulls out of his pocket. The smudge on the back of his hand is gone now.

“I thought we were going out for supper?” Kylo asks. _You’re not dressed_ , he means.

“Did you change your mind?” Hux asks. He tucks the cloth back into his pocket, puts his glasses back on.

“Uh, no,” Kylo says.

“Good,” he says crisply. He pushes the exterior door open, and heads out in the direction of the bar.

Kylo falls into step behind him.

 

They eat in silence, drink two rounds of beer without speaking. There’s a metal ring glinting on the pinky of Hux’s left hand that Kylo has never seen before—and he spends a lot of time looking at Hux’s hands, he’s certain he would have seen it if Hux had ever worn it before. It’s hammered metal, slightly uneven, and Hux keeps fidgeting with it, spinning it around his finger, and tapping it against the table.

Hux checks his phone every few minutes, but doesn’t appear to actively be texting anyone. He finally sets his phone down when Kylo brings the third round over, pushing the phone close to the edge of the table and flipping it over.

“I’ll be starting back at school next week,” he says, apropos of nothing.

“Okay,” Kylo says hesitantly. He’s pretty sure it’s too late for Hux to pick up any summer classes if he wants to—but, then again, he doesn’t know that for sure, maybe it’s different for grad students.

“So I’ll be on campus,” Hux continues.

Kylo takes a drink of his pint, nods.

“We may run into each other.”

Kylo nods again.

“You’re under no obligation to tell anyone about this,” Hux says. “About us.”

Kylo chokes a little on his beer, turns his head and coughs into his arm.

“As a matter of fact,” Hux continues. “It’s probably better if you don’t.”

Kylo blinks at him.

“It’s a fake engagement,” Hux says. He’s running his fingertip up and down the side of his glass, ring glinting in the light, and he’s not looking at Kylo. “And I don’t want to…ruin your chances with anyone.”

“I’m not…I’m not seeing anyone else,” Kylo says. He swallows, gathers up the courage to tell Hux that he’s gay, that he’s been pining after him forever, that he—

“You have needs, I’m sure,” Hux says.

Kylo freezes. Hux knows, he knows, he fucking _knows_ , of course he knows, and this is the part where he’s going to tell Kylo that he’s heard everything, that he’s heard jacking off, that he knows all about it—

“Unless you’re asexual,” Hux continues.

“I’m, uh. I’m not,” Kylo says, voice cracking horribly. “I’m actually, uh.”

Hux looks at him with those piercing eyes. (They look grey, in this light.)

“Not asexual,” Kylo finishes.

Hux’s eyebrows twitch, and he looks away again. “The executor of the estate doesn’t live in the area,” Hux says. “We’re not likely to see him. We don’t need to fake anything in public if you’re not comfortable with that. It’s probably—it’s probably enough that we’re living together and sharing space.”

Kylo swallows. It feels like his throat is full of broken glass. “Okay,” he says softly.

“You don’t have to worry about anything from my end,” Hux says after a few minutes. He’s stopped running his finger up and down his glass, has switched to fiddling with the ring on his pinky. “I’m not—I’m not seeing anyone right now. Nor will I be. I have—”

His phone vibrates, and Hux’s mouth flattens into a tight line, lips going bloodless.

“Sorry,” he says, picking up the phone and sliding out of the booth. “I have to take this.”

He doesn’t come back.

 

Kylo goes to settle up the tab at midnight, pays in cash. He stands out on the street for a moment, turns when he hears a soft cough from the alley. When he looks over, Hux is there, the cherry of his cigarette flaring as he takes another drag.

“Heading home, are you?” Hux asks, and his voice is raspy and raw.

“Thought I might,” Kylo says, and his voice only wavers a bit.

Hux nods, drops the butt of his cigarette, and leaves it to burn out in the alley.

“Well,” he says. “Let’s head back then, shall we.”

Kylo nods.

When Hux’s shoulder bumps against his, halfway home, Kylo doesn’t move away. They arrive home without speaking. Hux heads straight for bed, and Kylo escapes to the bathroom. By the time Kylo has finished his cold shower, coming over his hand the same way he has been daily ever since Hux moved in and washing away the evidence after—Hux is already in bed asleep.

(Kylo is still awake at three am, and he thinks, this time, he hears Hux sigh softly as Hux rolls against him and settles against his back like it’s where he belongs.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Phasma.
> 
> EDIT, MARCH 26: I am so sorry, y'all. I totally forgot to a) link to the accompanying blog post for this chapter, and b) include my trivia question!!
> 
> So, the link to the blog post for this chapter is [RIGHT OVER HERE](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/03/25/dtd-chapter-three-breakdown/), and it is basically, like, a director's commentary on the chapter.
> 
> And the trivia question!! Anybody recognize the ring Hux is wearing?


	4. posies in one and ashes in the other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage's thesis is awful. His fake engagement is awful. His lack of tea is awful.
> 
> Ren has solutions for at least one of these problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to @deadsy for beta'ing this chapter over and over and over again, and also for providing all of the painting information (though any errors are mine, and not hers) -- and to @valda, who not only caught my typos after publishing, but also was very patient with me while I tried to explain her correction back to her and then realized I was very fucking wrong about halfway through. <3

The aesthetic is all wrong. What the fuck was the point of him coming back to finishing his fucking thesis if he can’t get the aesthetic right?

Armitage rests his head back on the floor, stares up at the ceiling. The floor is too hard for him to be lying on like this, but he’s here, and he’s not motivated to get up. He reaches up and grabs onto the string he’d attached to the overhead light, yanks on it hard to plunge his studio into darkness. Runs his thumb lightly over the buttons on the remote in his left hand until he finds the start button, and—

His cellphone, lodged in the back pocket of his jeans, vibrates noisily against the floor.

Armitage sighs and sets the remote down. He pulls out his cellphone and pushes his welding goggles up onto his forehead so he can read the screen.

_This is formal confirmation that the thesis defense for Armitage Hux, Master of Fine Arts (sculpture) candidate, has been postponed to the next winter session. A selection of available dates is listed below. Please arrange the timing of your final exhibition with campus gallery administration. If another exhibition location is desired, this must be approved by your supervisor prior to scheduling. Finalization of the exhibition schedule is crucial, as this will impact…_

Armitage marks the email _unread,_ looks at the rest of his notifications.

Ren. Again.

_Ren: Hey Hux. Are you gone already this morning?_

_Armitage: I’m at school, same as I have been every day this week._

The response comes in immediately.

_Ren: Oh. It’s seven am, I thought you’d be back before heading out._

_Ren: Figured we could catch the same bus or something, but apparently I slept in too late for that!_

Of course _Ren_ slept in. Armitage was the one waking up with Ren’s fucking _arm_ right across his face. (Of course Ren sleeps like a selfish prick who has never shared a bed before. Of course Ren just rolls wherever the fuck he likes. Of course Ren doesn’t pay attention to whose mouth he’s sticking his arm over.)

He’d debated shaking Ren awake and really laying into him, but he just—couldn’t. Ren’s hair had been spread out on the pillow like a halo, ridiculous pseudo-mullet all tangled in the back where he’d been rubbing against the pillow. His face was slack with sleep, his mouth slightly open, tongue almost visible. Armitage had sat in bed from five am until five thirty, watching the dawn light creep across the bed, illuminating Ren’s one bare foot sticking out from under the covers, the slight rise of his knobby knees under the sheets—

_Armitage: Yes. You did._

—and then the vague jut of his morning wood, mostly concealed under the comforter but still enough to make Armitage’s mouth water, because Ren’s morning wood is promising even if Ren himself is nothing of the sort—

_Ren: Too bad._

_Ren: See you tonight._

Armitage tucks his phone back into his pocket without responding, because there is nothing to respond _to_ , but now he’s as irritated as hell at Ren trying to—trying to _make_ something out of this, like it _matters_ in some way. Like, what the fuck did Ren think they were going to do— _hold hands_ on the bus so that—Ren can—Ren can _brag_ to all his friends about—about what a good _person_ he is and—

(That thought falls to pieces. He knows, at this point, that Ren doesn’t have any friends. He’s never seen Ren brag about anything, not even this fucking apartment. If Hux’s place had windows like this, he sure as fuck would have casually dropped it into a conversation at work—but no. Ren keeps those fucking lips of his shut tight.)

Armitage looks up at _Starkiller_ , hanging from the ceiling like an albatross.

The entire project is fucking shit.

He gets up from the floor and turns the lights back on before sitting back down at his drafting table. He takes a sip of his tea, opens up the sequencing program on his laptop, and taps the side of his left hand against the table while he reviews the configuration.

(The sound of the side of his hand tapping against the side of the table is dull and vague, missing the click of his ring and, thus, completely unable to soothe him.)

When he reaches for his tea again, it’s cold. He sits there staring at his computer program, begrudgingly sipping until the tea is gone. He doesn’t really want to go buy more, but he’ll have to—because if he doesn’t, he’ll have to do something with this fucking thesis, and it’s all shit, absolute shit.

Armitage stands up, picks his greatcoat off the coat stand, and swings it over his shoulders. Opens his studio door, trying to decide if he’ll go to the closer on-campus place and get coffee, or if he’ll walk all the way over to Resistance, where at least he can get decent tea, even if he will have to talk to Poe—

There’s a thermos outside his door, tucked in right close to the wall. The hallway is completely empty, and there’s no way to tell how long it’s been here. Armitage unscrews the lid of the thermos, and sniffs suspiciously at the steam.

It’s tarine tea, the exact brand he drinks. There’s no note attached to the thermos, there’s no note left on the floor. There’s no indication anyone has been here at all, except that there is a thermos of tea made exactly to his specifications—black, two teabags, oversteeped—sitting outside his studio.

Armitage takes the thermos inside, fills his mug, and then screws the lid tightly shut again to keep the heat in. He sits back down on the floor, cradles the mug of tea against his chest.

His thesis is shit.

He never should have re-applied.

(He never should have told Ren _yes_.)

He takes a deep drink of the tea, closes his eyes.

 

When he gets home late that night, he leaves the empty thermos by the sink, and he doesn’t say anything about it. He lies in the tub for two hours with the door to the bathroom shut tight, and he listens to Ren moving around the apartment, and he doesn’t say anything about it. He lies in bed, and he waits as long as he can—waits while Ren has a shower that’s twice as long as his usual showers, waits while Ren pretends he’s just going to fall asleep like a regular person, drifts off while Ren mutters to himself in another language.

When he wakes up in the morning, he watches Ren sleep, and he doesn’t say anything about it. He gets dressed. He touches his dick in the shower, and thinks about Ren’s body, but doesn’t get off. He goes to campus. By seven am, he’s locked himself into his studio to lie on the floor and stare up at _Starkiller_.

Armitage emerges from his studio for more tea at eleven forty-five.

The thermos is sitting outside his door.

The thing is. Armitage would be angry if there was a note on it, some kind of sentimental claptrap or imitation at affection. He would be angry if there was any kind of—commitment, or requirement, on his part. He would be angry if there were any obligations, if he was required to text a _thank you_ response every time, or otherwise acknowledge that it’s happening. Except—he’s not required to do anything. Ren hasn’t asked anything of him. The tea shows up, Armitage drinks it. Armitage brings the thermos home and leaves it in the sink, and the next day, the thermos has reappeared, full. They do not discuss it, and because they do not discuss it, Armitage cannot find anything to be angry about.

(He wants to be angry. But he’s not trying very hard to find a reason.)

 

On Thursday, Armitage emerges from his studio, and there isn’t any tea. He frowns at his watch, locks himself back in his studio for another hour, and emerges again well past noon to find that the tea is still not there. He scowls his way over to the on-campus coffeeshop, pays way too much money for a black coffee he neither likes nor wants. When he gets back to his studio, the thermos is sitting outside his door.

He forces himself to down the coffee, staring at the thermos of tea the entire time. Tells himself that he’s not going to open it, that he’s just going to ignore it, make a point of bringing it home full and leaving it on the breakfast bar, because he doesn’t _need_ this, he doesn’t need _any_ of this. He can’t even ask about the tea because they don’t _talk_ about the tea, this has been going on for over a week and they have never once talked about the fucking _tea_ —

_Armitage: Did you make it to school okay?_

_Fuck_ , that was _not_ what he meant to text. Irritated, he sticks his phone in the pocket of his greatcoat and leaves it there, doesn’t look at it again for the rest of the afternoon.

 

“Oh, hey,” Ren says later that night.

“What?” Armitage asks flatly. He’s lying on the bed in his pyjamas, giving himself a manicure and finding absolutely no joy in it. He’s deliberately _not_ thinking about the irritatingly chatty texts Ren had sent him periodically for the rest of the afternoon, because he doesn’t need any of this. He doesn’t want any of this. The grass is greenest where it’s watered, and he’s been watering his crush on Ren for far too long and he needs to fucking _stop_ wasting his _time_ on things that he can’t _have_ and—

“How was, uh. Stuff.”

Armitage rolls his eyes and doesn’t respond, focuses instead on squaring off the nails on his left hand with his diamond file. He should say something cutting about Ren’s work, about the length of time it’s taking him just to put some depth into a nebula. About Ren’s shit-ass technique, because it is literally killing Armitage to watch him do this. He’s been lying here trying to focus on his nails, watching Ren build up depth with layers of transparent glazes, and then fuck it all up at the last minute, and if Ren reaches for that tube of awful opaque carbon black one more time, Armitage is going to go over there and upend his easel.

(He might go over there anyway, confiscate all the shit Ren is using that he shouldn’t be. Lecture him on which paints are chemically transparent and take away all the ones that aren’t until Ren earns them back. Slap him lightly on the cheek to make sure it sinks in, put his tongue into Ren’s mouth to make sure Ren is paying attention, which he won’t be, because he can’t listen for fucking shit—)

No. He won’t. He’s going to lie here, he’s going to fix his nails. He’s going to stop looking at Ren—except that every time he peers up from under his lashes, cutting remark at the ready, Ren is turning his head away as though he’s been looking. As though he’s been watching Armitage the entire time.

Armitage is flattered despite himself, even though it can’t mean anything coming from Ren.

“You have good hands,” Ren says, suddenly.

Armitage looks up at him, forgetting to close his mouth before he does so. “I have _what_?”

“G-good…never mind.” Ren flushes, his ears burning bright red where they’re sticking out from under his hair.

Armitage stares at him.

Ren reaches up, rubs the back of his hand along his face to push his hair back, leaving a smear of yellow ochre on his cheek. “Never mind,” he repeats.

Armitage looks back down to his nails, starts in on his left ring finger.

 

_[Armitage has sent a picture!]_

_Phasma: this an attempt to get me out? U know I’m workign_

_Armitage: I hate drinking alone._

_Phasma: u always drink alone_

_Armitage: I hate it. Thesis was terrible. Coffeeshop was terrible. I have nothing to look forward to. Poe wants me to take more shifts at Resistance and I don’t even know if I want to work there anymore but I’m not bringing in any money any other way._

_Phasma: nope we don’t talk about this stuff._

_Phasma: where’s ur built in buddy_

_Armitage: I don’t know. Not here. Not at home. Not answering his text messages._

_Phasma: ah, there he is. Fourth treadmill from the wall._

_Phasma: Tall, lanky_

_Phasma: dark hair_

_Armitage: Don’t describe him back to me, you know perfectly well what he looks like._

_Phasma: earbuds_

_Phasma: Unamo says ‘good thighs’_

_Armitage: Fuck. How long has he been there?_

_Phasma: scanned his card two hours and forty three minutes ago_

_Phasma: I’m sure he’ll be done any minute now._

_Phasma: cardio, ugh_

_Phasma: such a fucking waste._

“So,” Ren says, sliding into the booth. He smells horrific—he’s unearthed the horrible cologne he usually wears from the place where Armitage hid it, or maybe he had another bottle of it in his gym bag or something. He smells so much like a straight white boy that it’s giving Armitage a migraine, and Armitage is _still_ turned on and wanting him, even though he’d had forty minutes to collect himself since Phasma gave him the heads-up that Ren had left the gym.

“Hmm?”

“The art in here is really something,” Ren says. He looks flushed, and it’s probably from the gym, but that’s not what Armitage is thinking about right now. “It’s all original, huh? I was checking out the pastoral one in the bathroom, and did you know if you lean close and squint there’s actually a guy behind a tree fucking a…”

Armitage raises his eyebrow.

Ren trails off, the tips of his ears pinking.

“Would you like to discuss the art?” Armitage asks. His voice is measured. His pants are too tight.

“Y-yes?” Ren asks.

“Are you familiar with the cultural context of said art?”

“Uh,” Ren says. “Not really, no.”

Armitage lifts his shoulder minutely, takes another drink of his beer. “It’s not going to be a very good conversation, then, is it?”

“Not really,” Ren admits. He looks away, takes a drink of his own beer.

Armitage watches the way his sweat-damp hair falls back as he tips his head, except for the one piece that’s stuck to the side of his head. He wants to wrap that piece around his fingers and pull, see if Ren gasps in pain or if he goes straight to moaning. Maybe if Ren keeps his eyes shut, he’ll be able to pretend that Armitage is someone he’s interested in, instead of the pervert roommate who’s been watching him sleep and trying to gauge the size of his dick without getting caught. It would be easier if Ren _did_ catch him, if Ren would just notice and call him out for it, instead of acting like he has no idea what’s going on. Nobody’s that stupid.

“How was your day?”

Okay, maybe _Ren_ is that stupid.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Armitage says, because if he has to make up an entire series of things that he supposedly did today, he’s going to scream. It was bad enough that Poe needed a rundown of whether or not Armitage thought his advertising campaign had been working. He doesn’t need to make a bunch of shit up for Ren’s benefit. Armitage taps the side of his left hand against the table, ring clicking against the wood of it. It’s only an art degree. It shouldn’t be this hard. He already has an actual legitimate degree, he’s an _engineer_ , for fuck’s sake, how the hell is his _art_ thesis so fucking _difficult_ —

Ren is staring at Armitage’s hand.

Armitage stops fidgeting, flattens his hand on the table.

Ren keeps staring for a few seconds anyway, and then shakes his head and launches into a discussion of daoism.

He keeps staring at Armitage’s hand the whole time, and Armitage lets him.

(It’s not the attention he wants, but he’ll take what he can get.)

 

It’s the end of the following week when Armitage shows up at his studio, and the flowers Ren got him are dead. Brittle stems, black leaves, brown petals curled in on themselves. Armitage can’t bring himself to clean it up, which means he can’t bring himself to start work, which means there’s no point in him being here—

He stops in at Resistance, buys tea. Lets Poe book him in for some shifts next week.

Walks home, his greatcoat flowing out behind him.

He’s back home by eight in the morning, and Ren is already gone.

_Armitage: You have a parcel._

_Ren: Oh? What is it?_

_Armitage: I didn’t open it._

_Ren: Okay._

_Ren: Shit, that’s good. I just remembered what was in it._

_Ren: Thanks._

_Ren: I’ll come home for it. Are you still there?_

Armitage scowls at his phone, looks at the bath he’s just poured. _Fuck you too, Ren_. He reaches into the water, pulls the plug without ever having gotten into the tub. Takes his glasses off and puts his contacts back in, slicks his hair back.

_Armitage: No. On the way to campus._

_Ren: Supper later? My treat._

_Armitage: Maybe._

Armitage frowns down at his text message. He keeps texting the wrong shit to Ren, and it’s pissing him off. Now he’ll have to send another, separate, text message just to clarify. He hates doing that.

_Armitage: No. I’m still at my studio. I have work to do._

 

_Ren: Hey, so._

_Ren: I know you’re at school. But._

_Ren: I would really like to take you out for supper._

_Ren: It would be nice._

_Ren: I have a reservation downtown at that new place?_

_Ren: Calrissio._

_Armitage: Still at studio._

_Ren: Late supper?_

_Ren: Please?_

_Armitage: No._

Like. What the fuck does Ren think he’s doing? Calrissio. As though Ren can afford it. As though Ren and Hux could afford it together. And Ren has the nerve to act like this is planned, like it’s a nice outing, like this is—something they _do_ together when it is _not_ , it is emphatically _not,_ Armitage is probably just a second choice for whatever the fuck date Ren had tried and failed to get off the ground with some nice girl that’s going to be too stupid to realize what a catch Ren is. It’s—it’s _fine_ that Ren wants to ask Armitage as a backup, but he can’t possibly think that the two of them can go to Calrissio _platonically_.

_Armitage: In future, I need more notice._

He frowns at his screen, thumb hesitating over the _send_ button.

It’s an unreasonably bitchy text.

He sends it anyway, shoves his phone to the side, and starts reprogramming the sequencer for _Starkiller_ again.

 

When the doorknob to his studio rattles, Armitage ignores it. He’s nearly finished the revision of the sequencing and is minutes away from being able to say he’s done _something_ with his week—

The doorknob rattles again.

Armitage slides his headphones up over his ears, and cranks up the static he usually listens to while he works. He’s just bending over his laptop again when there’s a light touch to the back of his shoulder.

He whips around, grabbing for his keys before he realizes who it is.

Ren.

Of course.

Armitage yanks his headphones down around his neck. “What. The. Fuck.”

Ren takes a step back. “Shit, I’m so sorry, I thought—”

“My studio was locked,” Armitage says tartly.

“I, uh.” Ren looks over by the door.

Armitage follows the direction that he’s looking, notices a piece of cloth on the floor with a number of long metal skewers laid carefully on it. “Is that a—”

Ren bends down and scoops it up, wraps the fabric around the metal and shoves it into the pocket of his—

—the pocket of his suit jacket.

Armitage leans back against his drafting table and takes a good look at Ren.

Ren was definitely, _definitely_ on a date. He looks fucking _nice_ —sure, his suit jacket is a little big, and his white dress shirt is wrinkled slightly, but it’s an oddly charming look on him. His tie is tied inexpertly, but his hair is pulled back neatly, and there’s either twists or subtle braids in at his temples. He’s wearing dark jeans, and black Converse.

Armitage blinks rapidly, forces his voice into a lower pitch. “How was your date?”

“It wasn’t—I didn’t,” says Ren.

“It can’t have been that good if it’s—eleven forty five, and you’re here breaking into my studio instead of banging some floozy in the bed that you and I share.”

“Hux!” Ren exclaims. “There wasn’t—I wouldn’t—we _sleep_ there, I couldn’t—” His ears, made all the more obvious by the way he’s got his hair pulled back, have gone bright red and the flush is rapidly blooming down his neck. “And I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t know why not,” Armitage says. “You were quite firm with me that you’re not _asexual_ , so clearly you have needs—I have needs—we both have needs—” He’s tense, he knows he sounds tense. Lowering his voice earlier hasn’t done a damn thing, because now he’s speaking with the exact same tone of voice that he still gets berated for— _shrill_ and _effeminate_ and _odd_.

Ren’s mouth is open and Armitage can see his _tongue_ and he wants that tongue in his mouth, or on his cock, or up his—

_(pervert)_

Armitage takes a deep breath, puts his keys back on the table. Tries to re-centre himself. “What are you doing breaking into my studio, Ren?”

“It was late,” Ren says finally, staring at the wall just past Armitage’s shoulder. “It was late, and you hadn’t—responded to my texts about supper. I was—it was late—I got worried—I wondered if—if something had happened, okay? I wondered if something had happened, and I got—anxious.” Ren makes eye contact with him, briefly, and he looks so _concerned_.

Armitage doesn’t want to soften.

But he does anyway.

“Oh,” he says. “I was—I was here. My phone’s—right here.”

“Yeah,” Ren agrees, a little bitterly. “It was.”

Silence, for a few moments.

“It’s emptier in here than I imagined it would be,” Ren says, some of the tension coming out of his shoulders as he starts actually looking around the room. There’s nothing to look at—blank walls, Armitage’s drafting table and his laptop, a stool, and a stand to hang his coat.

“Your flowers died,” Armitage says. As though his negligence in plant ownership is somehow _Ren’s_ fault, when it’s just Armitage’s inability to connect with anything that’s alive in any kind of meaningful way.

(He ignores the part where Ren has been imagining what his studio space looks like. Ren probably covets the privacy, like any other undergrad would. He’s lucky he broke in, because Armitage isn’t in the habit of letting undergrads into his studio space. It’s only by chance that everything is put away like it should be and his laptop is the only thing open.)

“Whoa,” Ren says, and he’s looking up at _Starkiller_ so he doesn’t see Armitage watching him, and _goddamn_ , the length of his body is so compelling, especially now that Armitage can freely stare at his chest, down to his hips and those jeans, snug on his thighs. “That’s amazing.”

_Show_ you _something amazing_ , Armitage thinks. He’s making himself miserable enough, might as well make himself feel worse by imagining opening up his pants to show Ren his cock and—

“Is that part of your thesis?”

“Do you want to see it?” Armitage asks, and he bites sharply down on his own tongue the minute the words escape out of his mouth. He’s still thinking about Ren looking at his dick instead of at his failed thesis, and he never opens himself up like this because it’s a fucking mess every time and if Ren knows what’s good for him he’ll just decline—

Ren pats his pocket the way he does when he’s nervous, nods tightly. “Yes, please,” he says.

Armitage ignores the breathy quality to Ren’s voice, because it does him no good to fixate on those kinds of things, not when he’s already half-hard and saying fucking stupid shit instead of keeping his thirst contained and suppressed, tamped down so it’s not leaking out all over everything. (He doesn’t need any more masturbatory material than he already has, what with the way that Ren bites his lip when he’s concentrating on something, his habit of running his hands back through his hair, and that completely infuriating way that he looms everywhere, even when he’s just standing in the kitchen staring into the fridge. He needs to stop encouraging himself to think of Ren this way. He needs to stop being so fucking _predatory_.)

He pulls the floor-length string to shut off the lights, picks up the remote, and saves the new sequencing file before shutting his laptop. “There’s no sound,” he says as a disclaimer. “You’ll have to shut your eyes when I say, I only have one set of welding goggles.”

(He ignores the part where those goggles are on the floor and he has no intention of using them, because thinking about Ren wearing Armitage’s goggles makes Armitage’s mouth dry and his pulse race. The studio isn’t that big, and there’s only the two of them, and Ren is so _close_ right now that Armitage doesn’t want to get any physically closer to him because it’ll be entirely too much.)

“That’s fine,” Ren says. He still has that reverent tone to his voice, only he’s revering the wrong thing because _Starkiller_ is a failure and Ren is about to find that out first-hand—

Armitage activates it.

The room is suddenly awash with stars projected on the walls, some of them twinkling slightly. In the top corner of the room, a shooting star darts across the ceiling and down the wall.

Armitage opens his mouth to contextualize the rest of the piece for Ren—the way the sound will build from nothing, atmospheric sound together with the sound of the wind and a consistent bass rumble that starts to grow, getting louder and louder as the stars around them start to go out, one by one—

(It’s easier to be with Ren this way, with the lights out, his body getting vaguer and vaguer as the room dims.)

In the darkness, Ren shifts. Fumbles with something, and Armitage has a sudden visual of Ren undoing his pants, and approaching him like that, belt undone and fly unzipped, Ren putting his big hands on Armitage’s shoulders, Ren applying pressure and Armitage sinking to his knees—

Up above them, suspended from the ceiling, _Starkiller_ begins to glow. It’s subtle at first, but as more and more stars wink out on the walls, the glow increases, until the entire thing is burning itself up from the inside out, bathing the entire room in a blood orange glow—

“Close your eyes,” Armitage says, and he delays shutting his own for a moment, because he can’t take his eyes off Ren, glowing in the light of _Starkiller_ —but he has to, so he stares up at the studio-sized apocalypse happening overhead, imagines again how this will look in full scale, taking up all the space in the gallery, devouring all the light until there is nothing left except for the glow of _Starkiller_ itself, bathing the walls in its completion. He closes his eyes at the last moment, afterimages flickering behind his closed lids, and _Starkiller_ flares once, and then goes dark.

Armitage reaches for the string and yanks the overhead lights back on again, opens his eyes. “As  you can see, it’s—”

Ren is kneeling.

Correction: Ren is on one knee, extending his hand out to Armitage.

“Hux,” he says, and his voice cracks. He swallows, tries again. “Will you—”

“Don’t,” Armitage says, strangled.

_“It’s important_ ,” Ren says intensely.

Armitage shuts his mouth.

“Hux,” Ren says again. “Will you—can you—look, I know this is.” Ren swallows, starts to open his hand, and then fumbles, quickly goes down onto all fours, reaching out with his unfairly long arms and snagging something from underneath Armitage’s drafting table. “Will you marry me,” he mumbles from under the table.

Armitage blinks. Blinks again.

Ren re-emerges from under the table, still on his knees. He shuffles forward, takes Armitage’s hand in his. “Will you marry me?” he says again.

Armitage opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He swallows, tries again in a whisper. “You don’t—you don’t have to.”

“But I want to,” Ren says.

“It’s _fake_.”

“I know.”

“Then why—?”

“Because it’s important,” Ren repeats, but this time there’s a question at the end of his voice.

Armitage takes a deep breath. He has—he has _reasons_ and they are—reasons why this is—terrible and bad, except he can’t—why is Ren trying an actual _proposal_? It’s. It’s just. It’s a terrible idea to actually. With the—knee, and the—the thing Ren is holding in his hand, and—they could just—they could just shut the fuck up about this for—for as long as they need to, because—it’s fake—it’s going to fall apart before it gets anywhere near a wedding—this is—it is—it—

Ren runs his thumb along the side of Armitage’s hand, and opens his other hand.

There are matching rings cradled in his palm. Simple matte black bands with no stones in them.

“I’m really sorry about—you deserve way better than this,” Ren says. “But, uh, between the coffee shop and the installation work—we both—we both work with our hands all day, and these are supposed to prevent—degloving and all that other nasty stuff, because I know that you—that you weld stuff for your projects, and I just—”

“You bought us rings,” Armitage says. His head is spinning. He leans heavily back against the table, trying to remember when the last time he’d eaten was. He must have—he must have skipped a meal somewhere along the line. He’s so light-headed.

“Yeah,” Ren says, sounding relieved. “I—I bought us rings. Can I—”

Armitage lets Ren turn his hand over, palm down. Ren picks up the smaller of the two rings, extends it just in front of Armitage’s finger.

Hesitates.

Mumbles something at the floor.

“What?”

“They’re silicone,” Ren says, staring past Armitage’s hip. “Not—not metal.”

“I know,” Armitage says, and he means it to come out vicious, but it just comes out _soft_ —

Ren pinches the band between his finger and his thumb, looks up at Armitage as he demonstrates how it just _gives_ under pressure, and Armitage—

Armitage nods, and Ren—slides the silicone band onto Armitage’s left ring finger.

It slides on like it’s made for him. The silicone feels—different than what Armitage had expected, and he ducks his head to hide the way his face flushes, because it feels exactly like a smaller version of—of a cock ring that he owns, a cock ring that’s currently packed away with the rest of his sex toys in the fucking storage unit with all the things he hadn’t moved over to Ren’s, and that’s a really—a really inappropriate thought to be having right now.

Armitage takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes for a moment to try and re-centre himself.

When he opens his eyes again, Ren is slipping the matching band onto his own finger. “This is stupid,” Ren says, looking down at his own hand.

“Yes,” Armitage agrees.

Ren looks up, and his eyes are so wounded that Armitage very nearly cringes back from him.

Without saying anything else, Ren walks out of Armitage’s studio, leaving the door open behind him.

 

“—and he just walked out.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a moment.

“You said ‘yes’,” Phasma repeats. “He said ‘this is stupid’, and you said ‘yes’.”

“Yes,” Armitage says.

“Holy fuck,” Phasma drawls. “What happened to your brain?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Armitage half-yells into the phone. “It’s just—he’s just—he was in my space, and he’s so—he’s so _awkward_ and he _startled_ me and who the fuck—why did he—I don’t understand—I—I didn’t mean to—I can’t—it’s just like—holy fuck—”

“Do you like the ring?” Phasma asks.

Armitage opens his mouth to say no—that it’s a plastic ring, that it stands out ridiculously obviously against his pale skin, that he’s never wanted to be married, that this entire thing is a sham, and Armitage is a sham of a person, and this is supposed to be _fake_ and how can it be _fake_ if they have _rings_ —and instead, he says, “Yes.”

“Pardon?”

“Yes,” he repeats. “Yes, I like the _fake_ ring that my _fake_ fiancé bought me for our _fake_ marriage.”

“Well, get off the fucking phone with me, then,” Phasma says, and she hangs up.

Armitage stares at his phone a moment, before quickly finding Ren’s number, and hitting the call icon before he has a chance to second-guess it.

 

He doesn’t see Ren when he skids to a stop outside the student centre, out of breath and panting.

“Fuck,” he says. It’s fucking—empty out here, completely empty, the streetlights casting empty pools of light into the darkness. He turns in a circle, and his greatcoat slides off his shoulders and lands on the ground, and he keeps turning. “I can’t see you—”

“Against the wall,” Ren says quietly. “I can see you.”

Armitage turns, starts walking over.

“Your coat,” Ren says in his ear.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Armitage snaps. He goes back, snaps up his greatcoat with the hand that isn’t holding the phone to his ear, and turns back to Ren.

Ren is sitting on the concrete, leaned up against the building, hunched up. He looks miserable, and Armitage feels sick.

Armitage sets his coat down on the retaining wall Ren is leaning against, shoves his phone in his pocket, and crouches down next to Ren. “I am so sorry,” he says.

Ren sniffs. “S’okay. I know it was—it was bad.”

“You surprised me,” Armitage says. He swallows. “I was—really shitty about it. I don’t—it’s a really nice gesture, Ren.”

Ren looks away.

Armitage looks at the ground, debates sitting next to Ren in—in solidarity, or something, but the concrete looks cold.

(The concrete _is_ cold, and the cold goes right through his pants immediately.)

They sit there in silence for a few minutes.

“I do like it,” Armitage says. “The ring.”

“You do?” Ren asks.

“Yeah,” Armitage says. “It’s—it’s nice.” He hazards a look over at Ren. Ren still isn’t looking at him. “It fits really well. How did—did you guess?”

“Measured your iron ring,” Ren says. “Was watching you give yourself a manicure, and—mostly guessed, based on—based on the relative size of your ring finger next to your pinky.” He chuckles darkly. “Don’t know what I’d have done if you’d been right-handed.”

“Ha,” Armitage says, even though it’s not funny.

“Look,” Ren says a few minutes later. He’s staring down at his own ring, carefully turning it around his finger. “This is—this is a lot. Maybe…I mean, you had said, earlier, that you wanted to keep it quiet. Maybe it’s—maybe it’s better if we don’t—don’t wear them in public. Keep it quiet, like you said. This is…this is a lot.”

Armitage doesn’t respond.

Ren shakes his head, tucks his left hand under his thigh. “I just thought—you know, since it’s fake. That we might as well—have some a couple stories to tell. Something for the executor, or to—to talk about at the ceremony.”

“Oh,” Armitage says, understanding. “So you can practice, for later.”

“Yeah, and—”

“With someone else.”

Ren makes a noise in the back of his throat.

Armitage reaches back for his greatcoat, digs into the pocket. He offers the cigarette pack to Ren first—Ren declines—before lighting one for himself.

“The proposal—wasn’t like I thought it’d be,” Ren says after a few more minutes. “I really—I really did a bad job.”

“Yeah,” Armitage says. “You did.” He reaches out his hand, touches Ren lightly on his shoulder. “Maybe next time, your fiancée will propose to you.”

“Ha,” Ren says. “I’d like that.” He swipes his hand across his face.

“I’m sorry,” Armitage says again. “My reaction was cruel. I regret it.”

The corner of Ren’s mouth twitches. “Thanks, Hux,” he says. “That means a lot.”

 

They sit there long enough for Armitage to finish his cigarette. Ren gets up first, standing up and brushing off his jeans, and then extending a hand out to pull Armitage up.

Armitage should just get up on his own, but if he’s good at one thing, it’s repeating his own mistakes over and over again until he makes himself sick—so he takes Ren’s hand in his, brushes Ren’s ring with his thumb as Ren pulls him to his feet, and hangs on for just a little bit too long once he’s upright before he finally lets go. He still feels lightheaded.

(He wants Ren’s hand back in his.)

“I swear I don’t mean to be so awkward all the time,” Ren says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “This is—you know.”

“Yeah,” Armitage says. “I know.”

He doesn’t know jackshit. His heart is pounding in his chest, and Ren’s ring is on his finger. Armitage doesn’t deserve either the ring or the heartbeat.

He doesn’t deserve Ren standing too close to him on the bus ride home.

He doesn’t deserve Ren continuously _looking_ at him for the rest of the evening.

He doesn’t deserve a space in Ren’s bed.

But, Armitage thinks, as he rolls over at three am and settles deliberately against Ren’s back, the same way he always does, he’s going to fucking take it anyway.

He doesn’t deserve any of it.

And he’s going to take _everything_.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't google 'degloving' unless you're really ready for the results. Even if you think you're ready for the results, you're not ready for the results. Just don't do it.
> 
> The companion blog post (contains spoilers for this chapter!) is up and running [over at my blog](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/04/01/dtd-chapter-four-breakdown/). It's like a director's commentary, where I talk about stuff that worked, and stuff that didn't, and things I liked, and why I couldn't do any of the art discussion if it weren't for Deadsy because I don't know shit.


	5. closets are for clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Rey has a hell of a lot of pinball tokens squirreled away in her cargo pants, Poe has a hell of a lot of unexpected problems, Hux clearly forgot some things when he left the apartment this morning, and Kylo has an opportunity to make a significant decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my thanks to @deadsy for beta-ing, and also for softening the blow of 'actually I think you should remove this entire paragraph' by instead telling me 'I wanna blow this paragraph OUTTA THE SKY' and making me laugh. (And also, you were right, it was much better without the paragraph.)
> 
> And my thanks to @valda, who did a copyedit run for me and saved my metaphorical bacon.

“Hi,” Rey says.

Kylo flinches, shoves his phone into his pocket. “Rey,” he says in a whisper. “You’re supposed to be looking at sharks.”

“And _you’re_ supposed to be hanging out with me.” She crosses her skinny arms across her chest. “Except you’re texting.”

“I was just—” he says—but he forces himself to stop, to not explain, to leave it alone. He fidgets with the bare spot on his hand anyway, the spot where his ring _isn’t._ (His hand had felt perfectly normal for his entire life up until he’d fucking proposed, and now his finger feels—naked and weird without the ring on it, even though they aren’t wearing the rings. Even though they’d agreed that they weren’t wearing the rings. The part where Kylo tries his on in the bathroom sometimes is nobody’s business but his, and he always blushes horrifically the moment he puts it on so he couldn’t wear it out in public anyway. It’s a non-starter.)

(He still wants to die every time he thinks about how badly he had botched the proposal.)

“Never mind,” Kylo says finally. “It’s nothing. How are the sharks?”

“Look,” Rey says, voice softening. “You could just say something to him, you know?”

“Nope,” Kylo says. “Not gonna happen. Everything I say comes out—wrong.” He looks away from his sister back at the shark tank, but they’re not doing anything exciting right now, just moving around on the far side of the tank.

“It’s not _wrong_ ,” Rey says viciously. “Did he tell you it was wrong? Because if he—”

Kylo sighs. “No, he didn’t—look, it’s like I told you. He was—he was gracious about it. The whole thing. I suggested we shouldn’t wear the rings in public, because it was—it was a lot, and he agreed that was a good idea. So we’re not. Wearing the rings in public.” Kylo runs his hand back through his hair. “I’m glad, because I thought I was ready for that, but I’m—I’m really not.”

“You’re fidgeting with your hand,” Rey points out. “You’ve been doing it all morning. You were tapping the side of your hand against the table at lunch.”

“Look,” Kylo says, forcing his hands back by his sides, forcing them to still. “I will literally take you to any activity you want if you stop asking me about this, okay?”

Rey instantly grins, bounces on the balls of her feet. “Pinball?”

Kylo grimaces.

 

The pinball place is louder than what Kylo remembers, and he hates it the moment he walks in. He’s the tallest person there, and Rey is probably the youngest, so instantly, everyone is looking at them.

_Kylo: Ugh, how’s your day? What are you up to?_

He doesn’t get a response. It’s the third text he’s sent without one, so he sighs, pockets his phone, and tries to keep Rey from changing more than twenty bucks at a time into tokens. (He’s pretty sure she filched a fifty from his wallet at some point, though, because there used to be one in there, and now there is not—and she’s got one hell of a lot of tokens weighing down the pockets of her cargo pants.)

When Kylo’s phone rings, he pulls it out of his pocket with relief—they’re on their fifth machine, and Rey has beaten the hell out of him on the previous four, and this one isn’t looking promising for him either. He looks at the call display— _Resistance (work)—_ and steps away from the machine to answer, gesturing for Rey to go ahead and finish up. “Hux?”

Poe chuckles darkly on the other end of the line. “See, you would think that, but that’s actually my problem. What are you up to this afternoon, Ren?”

Kylo frowns. “Uh, stuff,” he says. “Why?”

“See, I know you’re technically not working right now. But Hux has ditched out on his shift, the new guy is sick, and we have a corporate thing this afternoon. My back room is full of stock, and I need everything cleared out of there so we have space to set out the table. I will literally do anything here, Ren. I’ll mark it down as overtime. I’ll pay you double. I’ll pay you cash. Wear your headphones. Keep your hoodie on. I literally don’t care, I just desperately, desperately need somebody to put stock on shelves for a couple hours.” Poe stops talking, takes a breath. “Look, buddy. I know you have class and I’m sure you’re drowning in homework, but it’s Saturday. Is whatever you’re doing right now critical?”

“Uh, no,” Kylo says, watching as Rey smashes the shit out of Kylo’s previous high score and keeps going. “I can come in and do stock for a bit. What time is the corporate thing? Because I’ve gotta be out of there before that.”

“Three,” Poe says. “They’re sending over staff from the north end to cover the front during, but they won’t be here until two thirty, and half an hour isn’t enough time to get it sorted out. I really, really need this to work out. It would be a huge favour to me.”

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “Yeah, I can do it.” His unspoken question— _is Hux okay_ —isn’t one he knows how to ask, but maybe if Poe doesn’t need him right away, he can stop by the apartment on his way to work and check on him, maybe he’ll just take Rey and—

“Perfect,” Poe says. “What’s your ETA like, five minutes? You’re really saving me here, I’ll see you soon.” There’s a click on the other end as Poe hangs up.

—or he’ll just head right there. Alright.

Kylo frowns at his phone, sends another text to Hux.

_Kylo: Hey, you alright? Do you need me to bring you anything?_

He slips the phone back into his pocket just in time to see Rey jump up and punch the air, and then joyfully enter R-E-Y into the high scores for the machine. She’s first, and he hasn’t a fucking clue how.

“Alright, come on,” Kylo says, trying to shepherd her out of the arcade before any of the boys looking at her get the idea they’d like to _talk_ to her. “I have to go into work for a bit, but I’ll buy you as much chai as you want if you just sit there and read some books, alright?”

“Really?” she asks.

“Really,” Kylo promises. He doesn’t relax until they’ve managed to make it out the door without anyone approaching them.

(There’d been a fight the last time a group of boys tried to question Rey’s pinball skills, and she’s bigger now, so it’d be a bigger fight. She’d still win, so it’s a good thing they’re free because he doesn’t really want to explain his lack of intervention to Leia—or, god forbid, Amilyn.)

 

Poe looks harried, but he still grins when Kylo comes through the door. “Buddy!” he exclaims warmly before gesturing to the back. “You’re saving my ass here, thank you so much. Everything’s in the back, and I think your apron is still kicking around back there somewhere.” Poe grins charmingly at the customer he’s serving. “Sorry for the profanity,” he says with a wink, and the customer laughs.

“Okay,” Kylo says to Rey under his breath. “Sit in the corner. Don’t wander off. Don’t cause problems. Don’t talk to me. Just, like, sit, and read my textbooks, and I swear by all that is holy that I will discuss every single one of them with you once this is over with.”

“And buy me chai,” Rey says. “And cookies.”

“And I’ll buy you chai,” Kylo agrees. “Here. Take this twenty, start from here, and let me know when you’ve eaten your way through that, alright?”

“But not by speaking to you,” Rey says, eyes sparkling.

“Text me,” Kylo says. “Your phone is still charged, right?”

“Always,” Rey says. She grins at him, and then plucks the twenty out of his hand and skips up to the counter.

Kylo rolls his eyes, checks his own phone for messages from Hux—there aren’t any—and then heads into the back to figure out what the hell he’s committed himself to.

 

It takes Kylo an hour and a half to make any kind of significant progress. The shirts all need to be unpackaged and refolded, the mugs need to be dusted and priced, the calendars are kind of ugly but he’s gonna have to put them out anyway, and honestly, he can see why Poe was so stressed about it, because he’s most of the way through everything and it still looks like a bomb has exploded in the back room.

The shop is oddly empty when Kylo carries a stack of boxes out to the front—there’s just Rey, sitting in the corner with her knees pulled into her chest and a couple of Kylo’s textbooks spread out around her, and Poe, washing up the counters and restocking the coffee cups. Kylo sets the shirts out on the shelves where they belong, strips off the display shirt and replaces it with one of the new ones. He’s just crouched on the floor starting to unpack mugs when the door chime rings.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Poe asks incredulously.

Kylo looks up, and swallows, because it’s Hux. Of course it’s Hux.

Only, he’s all—

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again. Hux’s hair is loose around his face instead of slicked back, even though he’s never worn it that way at work before. He’s wearing his customary black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but with tight black jeans instead of dress pants, and—and _sunglasses_ , and—and red Converse—and—

Kylo looks down at the mugs. He can feel his ears burning, and his heart is pounding.

“Dameron,” Hux says. “I’ll be right out, just need to grab my apron.”

“Look, we should talk,” Poe says. “Ren, can you cover the counter for a minute?”

Kylo looks up, accidentally meets Hux’s eyes. Hux takes off his sunglasses with his left hand. He must have been really rushed when he left the house, because he’s got his iron ring on his fourth finger instead of his pinky, and his colour is high even though it’s not all that warm outside today.

“Oh,” Hux says. “ _Ky_ lo,” and the emphasis on the first syllable, the part where this is the first time Hux has ever addressed him as anything other than _Ren_ and not been making fun of him—it goes right to Kylo’s guts, punches the air out of his chest.

Kylo wants to look away but the flush on Hux’s face perfectly sets off his cheekbones, and Kylo can’t stop looking at him. The top two—two!—buttons on his shirt are undone, and that’s far enough to see that the flush is extending down onto his chest as well.

“Uh, yeah,” Kylo says. “I’m, uh. Here.” He tries to stop looking at Hux, but he just can’t, because Hux looks so fucking _good_ , especially when he turns to follow Poe into the back room and—

—and—

Kylo watches Hux go, staring at Hux’s left hand the entire time. It’s—it’s not his iron ring. Hux isn’t wearing his iron ring.

He’s wearing the engagement ring.

He’s wearing the ring Kylo got him.

He’s wearing the ring _at work_.

 

_Rey: KYLO_

_Rey: kylo_

_Rey: kylo pls say something or blink_

_Kylo: We made a deal._

_Kylo: We weren’t going to wear the rings at work. Or in public. Or at all._

_Rey: take a deep breath_

_Rey: another one_

_Rey: …and another one_

_Rey: literally I am watching u and ur not breathing_

_Rey: I will say this out loud god help me_

_Rey: thnk u_

_Kylo: I just…we agreed that we weren’t going to wear them because this is fake and the executor isn’t from around here and wearing the rings is scary because it feels—it just weirds me out and we didn’t want to explain it to people, except he’s just—he’s just wearing it at work? Has he been wearing it at work the entire time? I don’t even know, I just have my ring in the cabinet in the bathroom but I don’t even know where he’s been keeping his and apparently he’s keeping it ON HIS FINGER and I just, Rey, I just._

The door opens, and a group of customers walk in. Kylo quickly shoves his phone into his back pocket, looks over at Rey. She gives him a thumbs-up, but it doesn’t do anything to quell the sinking feeling in his stomach, or the part where he can’t breathe correctly because Hux is _wearing his ring_ even though they had specifically agreed on _the exact opposite_ , and now Hux is back there with Poe and Kylo really, really hopes—

“—black, and one of those chocolate chip cookies.”

“Right,” Kylo says. He has no fucking clue what the actual order is and he’s going to have to ask them again, but he can buy a little time by entering the cookie order into the till—

—except no, he absolutely cannot, because the till is locked, and Kylo’s login doesn’t work here anymore because _he_ doesn’t work here anymore, he’s not even supposed to be here, and there’s no way Poe even remembered that, which means now Kylo has to go _back_ there and if Hux looks at him again, he’s going to die—if Hux even opens his mouth to say Kylo’s name again, he’ll just—his heart will melt in his chest and he’ll do something stupid like—pass out in the middle of the coffeeshop—

“I’m new here,” Kylo lies easily. “And the till’s doing something weird, I’m just gonna have to duck into the back for a second.”

He considers knocking on the door, but it’s going to look weird if he does that—it’s going to look like he’s trying to cover for something suspicious happening in the back room even though there isn’t anything suspicious in the back room, it’s just that there’s—that there’s Hux, and—

He pushes open the door and steps inside.

“—just concerned about your mental health, that’s all,” Poe is saying.

“Can’t imagine why,” Hux says. He’s leaning back against the shelving, hands shoved in his pockets. “You never have been before.”

(Maybe Kylo just imagined the ring. Maybe he just made the entire thing up. Maybe everything is actually normal and Kylo is imagining things and he can just—he can just finish out this shift and everything will be fine, and when he heads back to the apartment, he’ll just—he’ll just figure out where Hux stores his ring and confirm it’s there—)

“Look,” Poe says, and he reaches out, touches Hux’s elbow. “I can help you out, you know? I just—things have been weird, and you’re not in a great place—”

“Never been better,” Hux says curtly. He shifts his torso away from Poe without taking his hands out of his pockets.

“Hey,” Kylo says, a little louder than he needs to, because this is getting more and more awkward the longer he stands here. “Poe, I, uh—I can’t actually log into the till, it’s disabled and we’ve—we’ve got people.”

“Oh hell,” Poe says, turning away from Hux. “I totally forgot about that, Kylo, I’m so sorry—here, I’ll go finish up.” He brushes past Kylo, goes back into the store proper.

The door swings shut behind him, and then it’s just Kylo and Hux.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Hux says easily. He takes his left hand out of his pocket, adjusts the hem of his shirt without looking at it. The ring is _right there_ , at the base of his fourth finger, a black ring against pale skin and a black shirt, and it’s Kylo’s _ring_ , it’s the one he bought for Hux and it looks good, it looks fucking good on his hand and Hux is just wearing it like it’s nothing even though it’s everything even though—

“Doing a favour for Poe,” Kylo says, his voice cracking, uneven and adolescent-sounding and _fuck Hux is wearing his ring_ —

Hux rolls his eyes. “Course you are,” he says, and his accent isn’t nearly as crisp as it usually is. “ _Fucking_ hell.”

_What’s that supposed to mean,_ Kylo wants to ask—but he’s not certain he can actually get words out if he opens his mouth, so he ducks his head, stares at his feet. He wants to say something—he wants to call Hux out on it—but he just can’t.

Kylo forces his breathing to steady as he turns, pushes the door open and heads out front. He keeps his chin tucked to his chest, doesn’t make eye contact with Poe or Rey or any of the customers, tries to settle himself down before anyone notices how fucked up he is.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

_Rey: u got this_

He does not. Kylo completely, one hundred percent, does _not_ have this, and he’ll be fucking lucky if he can finish the shift without freaking out over something.

 

When Hux emerges from the back room, he’s actually _whistling_ , some tune Kylo doesn’t recognize at all until Hux actually says some of the lyrics under his breath as he walks by Kylo, and _fuck you like an animal_ is _not_ a phrase that Kylo even wanted to _think_ about and yet here he is and that’s exactly what Hux is whistling and Kylo’s dying, he’s dying right now, he’s going to pass out, he’s—why—why is Hux—

(Kylo makes a specific point of not looking up, and it doesn’t help, because he’s blushing so hard it’s probably visible from space.)

Kylo needs to just—needs to keep busy. Poe has escaped to the back with the laptop, Hux is handling all the customers up at the front, and all Kylo has to do is—reprice mugs, move the old stock over to the sale section, put the new stock out, and somehow, magically, not drop anything or break anything or do anything weird. Nobody is making a big deal about this. It doesn’t matter. Even if Hux _is_ wearing his ring, Kylo _isn’t_ wearing his, so, really, there’s no reason for anybody to say anything. There’s no reason for any of this to be a thing. Nobody knows. Nobody can tell.

Except that it’s fucking weird. It’s not just the ring. It’s everything about Hux. He’s chipper and easy and loose. He’s smiling at customers, he’s smiling at _Poe_ , he’s making coffees like he legitimately enjoys doing it, and he doesn’t even roll his eyes when someone orders something that takes them a full five minutes to describe. There’s a bit of a rush where the coffeeshop is briefly full of people—and Hux doesn’t even flinch, just smiles his way through the rush, and relaxes against the counter when it’s all over.

When Poe comes out of the back holding the laptop, Hux raises his eyebrows. “You need help with the books?”

“No, I need a cheat sheet for whatever you’ve _done_ with the books,” Poe says. “We can’t all be math savants, Hux.”

(This is fine. Everything is fine. Kylo is going to focus on the mugs. They’re nice mugs. He can make sure they’re all facing out, displaying the logo. That seems good.)

“Wait,” Poe says.

Kylo looks up. He doesn’t want to look. He’s not going to look—but he hears it in Poe’s voice before he’s even moved his head, he knows exactly what Poe has just noticed—and sure enough, with the way Hux has crossed his arms over his chest, the black ring on his left hand is very, very obvious.

“Just go ahead and show me the books,” Hux says.

“No, wait,” Poe says. “Let’s chat. It’s been a while since we’ve chatted. It’s just us here. Let’s have a conversation.” His eyes are glinting, but his mouth is tighter than it should be.

Hux furrows his brow. “We just talked.”

“Let’s talk again,” Poe says. “What went on this weekend?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“No big events?”

“No.”

“No small private events?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“No _future_ events?”

Hux shakes his head, mouth going flat. “Dameron. I don’t know what you’re doing, but—”

“Who’s the lucky boy?” Poe asks the question with a smile on his face, but Kylo has known Poe long enough to know it’s his bullshit smile, which is exactly as real as the smile Poe uses when someone is getting shirty with him about whether or not the water has been heated to exactly the right degree. “Or is it a lucky girl? Lucky enby?”

(The ring is so fucking _obvious_. Hux’s hands are narrow and elegant, and the silicone ring is pitch-black, thick and sturdy and proclaiming to absolutely everyone Hux is off the market, Hux is taken, Hux is—)

“You know how I feel about luck,” Hux says flatly. “I don’t know to whom you are referring, and I don’t know what this is about.”

“It’s about _that_ ,” Poe says, nodding toward Hux’s hand.

Hux looks down at his hand, and his entire body stills. He twitches his head briefly in Kylo’s direction, almost like he’s going to look at Kylo—but he doesn’t, he doesn’t look at Kylo at all even though Kylo is openly staring at him.

“It’s a ring,” Hux says tightly, looking directly at Poe. “On my finger. As one does with a ring.”

“It’s on your left hand,” Poe says. “Fourth finger.”

“So?”

(Kylo wants Hux to look at him, wants Hux to acknowledge him so badly. His heart is pounding in his chest. He might cry. He wants Hux to _look_ at him.)

Hux doesn’t say anything. His mouth is flattened into a tight line, lips bloodless. His hair hanging down loose around his face makes the entire thing worse—and he’s wearing his contacts, which means Kylo has a completely uninterrupted view of Hux’s eyes, and exactly how _green_ they are in this light, _cobalt green_ with a hint of _terra verte_ even though Kylo could work for hours and still not be able to get the translucency exactly right—

(Kylo’s phone vibrates in his pocket, but it’s not Hux texting him because Hux’s hands are still crossed over his chest, and since it’s not Hux texting him, Kylo doesn’t give a flying fuck.)

“This your delicate way of telling me that I’m not invited?” Poe asks. “I thought we were on good terms, after everything.”

Hux exhales, long and steady. “Dameron,” he says.

“Armitage,” Poe replies.

Hux looks away—and in the act of looking away, he looks directly at Kylo, swipes his tongue across his lips.

Kylo maintains eye contact.

Hux looks back at Poe. “We haven’t set a date,” Hux says calmly. “Nothing is planned. If it were relevant to you, I would have said something, but it wasn’t, and I didn’t. I’ll thank you not to pry into my personal life. Both myself and my partner feel very strongly that our personal lives should remain private and it’s best to keep things quiet.”

Poe chuckles, sits up on top of the counter. “I don’t know, keeping quiet has never really been your style, has it?”

Kylo takes a deep breath, and then another. Mugs. He’s going to organize mugs. He’s going to arrange them, and organize them, and everything’s going to be—tidy. And neat. He’s blushing, and he doesn’t know why, and he just wants Hux to _acknowledge_ him.

“That’s no longer your concern,” Hux says, and his voice rises in register by a few degrees—and that’s when Kylo realizes Hux is upset.

It’s not an easy thing to see, and Hux is hiding it well, but now that Kylo has seen it, he can’t _unsee_ it—it’s in Hux’s voice, in the bright spots of colour high on Hux’s cheeks, it’s in the way he’s tapping his fingers against his elbow, under his arm so that Poe won’t be able to see, but it’s _all_ Kylo can see from this angle, Hux’s finger tapping rapidly on his own elbow, Hux swallowing, trying to get his voice under control—it’s _you bought us rings_ and w _e don’t need to fake anything in public if you’re not comfortable with that_ only it’s _Hux_ who is uncomfortable right now, and it’s Poe making him that way, and Kylo can—

—Kylo can help with this. The entire thing is supposed to be for practice anyway, Hux had said as much when Kylo had proposed, and this is a good opportunity to practice—to practice _saying_ something because Hux is in distress and he needs help and Kylo can help him if he can just open his fucking mouth—

“I mean, I’m a little concerned,” Poe says. “You were late getting here, your hair is a mess, your shoes aren’t to code, and, oh yeah, you’re somehow magically engaged to someone after you were quite clear you’re against marriage due to—oh, what was it now? _Cheating, abuse, and bastardry in all forms_ , I’m pretty sure that’s what you told me when you were—”

“Can we not do this at work?” Hux snaps.

“I just want to know,” Poe says. “I still…you know…”

“It’s me,” Kylo says. It doesn’t come out loud enough the first time, and he fists his hand, punches the side of his thigh in an attempt to get his voice to settle down, and tries again, but louder. “Poe—Hux is engaged to me.”

Poe blinks.

“There, see?” Hux says coldly. “Simple solution to a simple problem, fucking _christ_ , Dameron, you always complicate the simplest—”

“I’m gay,” Kylo says.

Hux whips his head around and _stares_ at Ren.

“I didn’t—” Poe starts.

“I’m gay,” Kylo repeats, cutting Poe off before he loses his nerve and backs away from the statement completely. “I’m gay, and I’m engaged to Hux, and I asked him to keep things quiet because I’m closeted—was closeted—but apparently I’m not anymore.”

“I—didn’t know,” Poe says awkwardly.

Kylo’s hands are shaking. Why the fuck are his hands shaking?

(Why the fuck hasn’t Hux _said_ anything, why is he just _staring_?)

“It’s okay,” Kylo says, faking a calm he doesn’t actually feel—and he’s only gonna be able to fake for another minute or two before he snaps. “I was gonna have to come out sometime, and I’m out now.” He swallows, and then repeats it just to make sure. “I’m gay. I’m engaged to Hux.”

Hux is blinking rapidly, left hand over his mouth, and all Kylo can see is that fucking _ring_.

“Are you okay, Hux?” Kylo asks. _I’m sorry I left my ring at home_ , he means, but he doesn’t want to imply to Poe that anything is weird, and if Hux is going to pretend this is normal—then Kylo is just going to pretend it’s normal too.

“It’s—” Hux says from behind his hand. Then he swallows convulsively, slowly lowers both his hands to his thighs. “It’s fine,” he says steadily. He’s still doing that odd blinking thing, and Kylo wonders if his contacts are bugging him. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Poe says, sliding down from the counter and clapping his hands. “This has been great. Very touching. Very emotional. Only we’re doing this in the middle of the store, and I don’t know where my head has been, but we really need to not be doing this in the middle of the store, especially because there’s that corporate thing today, so we’re just going to—we’re just going to dial this back, here, and—”

“I’m done anyway,” Kylo says, suddenly realizing that he can’t stay here anymore, that if he stays, he’s going to do something he regrets. He reaches back behind himself, tries to untie the knot on his apron and can’t get it, _pulls_ at it and the thing fucking snaps. He yanks the apron up over his head, takes one look at Rey—she’s still staring, and her mouth is open like a fish—and tosses his apron on the floor. “I’ve got—a paper due, and it’s—both of you are here now, you’ll be fine.” He takes a deep breath, waits for Hux or Poe to say something—but neither of them say anything, so Kylo turns, and leaves the store.

Being outside doesn’t help. It’s still the tail end of spring, summer hasn’t even started yet, and Kylo can’t _breathe_ , he can’t get any air, he doesn’t know what the fuck he was thinking—coming out in front of everybody like that, and at work, and the look on Hux’s face was just—he’d been so _pale_ , and what if that was the wrong thing, what if Kylo just committed to the wrong thing, every choice he makes is usually wrong anyway so why would anything about this be different how was he supposed to know how to do this he bets Hux would have come out perfectly the first time and never had to repeat it so why did Kylo think that he could just—

He can hear footsteps rapidly approaching from behind him.

“Rey,” Kylo snaps through gritted teeth. “I said I was _done_.” He stops and turns suddenly, and the body that collides against his is—tall, and red, and—and Hux is stumbling back from him, regaining his footing, Hux’s teeth are gnawing at his lower lip, Hux is—Hux is _here_.

Hux’s face is flushed from having run out of the store, and his apron is untied at the back and hanging off his neck, and he’s never looked so fucking handsome as he does right now except that’s a fucking lie, because Hux looks better every single time Kylo sees him and Kylo falls for him a little worse every single second and—

“Sorry,” Hux breathes, and he closes the gap between them, tips his head up, and he—

—and he kisses Kylo lightly on the lips and everything—

—just—

— _stops._

 

“Oh, fuck,” Hux says. “I have that corporate thing—” and he’s gone before Kylo can even remember how to breathe.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW OKAY.
> 
> It's been very hard to hold that chapter in.
> 
> Like Kylo, though, the chapter is now out, and now we can all move forward with our new reality.
> 
> Just a couple of end notes that didn't make it into the blog post--yes, 'enby' is slang for nonbinary people, and yes, Hux has dated men, women, and nonbinary people in the past. And yes, Hux was whistling/singing [NIN's Closer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTFwQP86BRs). (If you'd prefer to listen to a more chipper version of the song, I'm sure Hux is also familiar with the [Richard Cheese version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=crJ-dSZp52U)\--and, after all, Hux is feeling pretty goddamn good this chapter right up until he shortcircuits.)
> 
> And as always, I did write a blog post for this chapter, so [come on over and knock yourself out](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/04/07/dtd-chapter-five-breakdown/).


	6. finger on the button, that cold war threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux is trying to calm himself down.
> 
> It's not working.
> 
> Sooner or later, he's going to have to go home.
> 
> (He's going to have to face Ren.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My infinite thanks to @deadsy, who sat through four revisions of this while I proceeded to overwrite things, and then try to excavate my actual chapter back out from under a bunch of BS.

_—Ren’s fingers wrapped around his cock, other hand on his hip, holding him steady. Armitage can see the ring from this angle, can feel it pressing against him as Ren squeezes him tight. Armitage is undoing Ren’s belt, unbuttoning his pants, splaying the denim wide so he can see—_

“Hux?”

Armitage lights his second cigarette off his first, exhales a cloud of smoke and then turns to look at Poe. “What.”

“Came out for a smoke,” Poe says, holding up the unlit cigarette between his fingers.

Armitage wrinkles his nose, turns away. He can still feel Ren’s lips against his—that is, he can still feel the corner of Ren’s mouth against his, because he’d fucking _missed_ when he’d gone in and Ren had just stood there like a fucking statue and then Armitage ran off like a coward and—here he is, and he doesn’t know where the fuck Ren has gotten to.

(He’d been trying to calm himself down out here, and of course Poe’s come to fucking ruin that too, just like he’s ruined everything else.)

“That was an afternoon and a half,” Poe says from beside him. He’s not smoking his cigarette, just flipping it between his fingers unlit.

Armitage exhales, pulls another lungful in.

“Who’d have thought Ren’s gay?” Poe says.

Armitage tries to scoff, but it comes out sounding more like a sob. Which is fine. Poe was never any good at identifying those anyway.

— _Ren’s fingers wrapped around his cock, Ren’s body pressed up against his, Ren’s—_

“I mean, you, obviously,” Poe says. “But, like. What the hell? I didn’t even think you were back in the dating pool.”

“I wasn’t,” Armitage says. He takes another drag off his cigarette. His hands are shaking. “And then Ren happened,” he adds. Swallows, hard. Fucking Ren, with his _hair_ and his _shoulders_ and his—neck and his nose and the way he bobs his head when he’s listening to music and—

“You’ll have to tell me about that sometime,” Poe says.

“I’d really rather not.”

Poe shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He still hasn’t lit his fucking cigarette. “At least the corporate thing went well.”

Armitage grimaces, turns away. Hux bombed the meeting—he knows it, corporate knows it, and Poe fucking knows it. “Save it, Dameron.” He lights a third cigarette. “And fuck off.”

Poe takes a step back, holds his hands up in front. “Whoa, buddy. All you had to do was say so.” He hesitates at the back door. “Is this about earlier? The thing with the ring? It was petty, and I owe Kylo an apology.”

_What about me, you fuck_ , Armitage thinks. “Yes, you do.”

“I’ll look after that,” Poe says.

Armitage’s lip curls, but he nods anyway.

“We cool?”

“Sure,” Armitage says. He waits for Poe to leave before he sags back against the wall.

Ren is _gay_ , holy fuck.

This changes _everything,_ except for the part it _should_ change—because Armitage doesn’t feel even a speck of guilt over what had transpired earlier that morning, when he’d slid the ring onto his finger, stroked his cock until he was aching, and then bent over the bathroom counter and put his fingers up his ass, thinking of Ren the whole time. He’d only planned to play with himself for an hour, and then head to work—but Ren had fucked that up by texting Armitage all morning, so Armitage couldn’t forget about him, and _do you need me to bring you anything_ was really not what Armitage wanted to read when he was already four fingers deep inside himself. Fuck Ren bringing him anything, all Armitage wanted was for Ren to bring him _off_ —

—except that’s actually a possibility now. Now that Ren is gay. Now that Armitage _knows_ Ren is gay.

Armitage takes another drag on his cigarette, exhales twin streams of smoke from his nose. If he’d known, he would have—well, he would have done everything differently. He wouldn’t have lounged around in the apartment in his glasses and his pyjamas, would have styled his hair before going to bed so he didn’t wake up with it fluffy. Would have sat in bed and flirted with Ren, stretching his arms up over his head and letting his shirt pull up to expose his stomach, instead of lying in the tub alone for hours. He would have gone and stood behind Ren, corrected his painting technique in person instead of just glaring at Ren’s work the moment Ren left the apartment—

_Fuck._ He’s really done himself in this time, and he has no idea how to handle it.

 

“—and it would just be for a night or two, just until I figure out—”

“No,” Phasma says in the middle of his explanation. She follows that up by swinging her wrapped fist at his head so he has to duck and scramble back. “Go the fuck home.”

(Armitage trips over the mat and falls on his ass. Phasma steps back, waits for him to get up.)

“What do you mean, no?” he asks, wincing as he gets back to his feet. “I need a fucking favour, Phasma. You already have my cat—”

“I’m not taking you too,” she says. “Get out of my gym, and go the fuck home.”

Armitage wipes the sweat off his face with the back of his hand, crouches back down into a guard position. “No, this is—this is good. I’m still good for this.”

Phasma stands there waiting, looking completely nonplussed even though they’ve been at it for half an hour. “I have clients coming at six.”

“That’s another—another twenty five minutes,” Armitage says.

“You’re out of shape,” she says flatly. “You won’t make five.” She looks him up and down, crosses her arms over her chest. “Go shower, and go home.”

“I can’t,” he says.

“Why?”

Armitage chews at his lip, and then crouches down, starts coming toward her again.

She waits, easily blocking his swings, before speaking again. “Your turnaround on these things is getting much shorter.”

“…he’s gay,” Armitage says, landing a punch onto her ribs he’s certain she doesn’t even feel, and then dancing back out of the way again.

“And?”

“He’s _gay_ ,” Armitage snaps. He puts his fists down, stares at her.

“Of course he’s gay,” Phasma says without inflection. She starts coming at him again, and he delays as long as he can before putting his fists back up and dancing backward out of the way again. “I don’t see why that’s a problem.”

“He never _told_ me,” Armitage says.

“Well, he told me,” Phasma says.

“He _what?_ ” Armitage goes in fast, lands a kick against her side, goes to follow it up with a punch—and is immediately lying on the floor staring up at the ceiling.

“This is what happens when you don’t train,” Phasma says.. “You waste my time and you get your ass handed to you.” She crouches down next to him, speaks softly. “You need to go home, okay? You can’t come stay with me every time something goes tits-up.” She stands up, starts unwrapping her hands. “And you can’t just hire me for an hour every time you need a vent session. You’re going to be sore as hell tomorrow, and I didn’t give you any advice you couldn’t have gotten from somebody else.” She lets the wrap from her right hand fall to the floor, starts unwinding the left. “Like, hypothetically speaking, Ren.”

“I can’t talk to _Ren_.” Armitage scowls at the floor, starts unwrapping his own hands. Fuck being sore tomorrow, he’s sore _now_.

“He’s your roommate,” Phasma says evenly. “And your fiance, and he’s trying very hard to be your friend. If nothing else, he’s the best option you’ve got for finding someone else to take that monster of a cat when I decide I’m done with her—which will be very, very shortly.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Armitage says.

“Thanks for the money,” Phasma replies. “I’ll call you about the cat.”

“Fine,” he says. “I’m going home.”

 

He doesn’t go home, because if he goes home, he’s going to do something stupid, like strip naked and ‘accidentally’ fall asleep on the bed. He’s going to do something irresponsible, like throw himself at Ren. He’s going to do something reckless, like stop at Bala-Tik’s for whiskey, get shit-canned, and then hope he stumbles right into Ren’s chest. Dick first, preferably.

Armitage goes to campus.

 

Ren’s flowers are still in Armitage’s studio. Dead, withered, crisp. He thinks, again, of how Ren looked when he’d brought the fucking things over, all—sincere and intense and gorgeous and so awkward he could hardly get two words out—which is exactly the opposite of how he’d looked today, staring directly into Armitage’s eyes with determination, his sexuality written all over his face in a way that Armitage can’t even convince himself was an exaggeration, much less a lie.

He wants to bring Ren here again. Run the program on _Starkiller_ so Ren can watch the lights glowing, witness the apocalypse. He wants to kneel on the floor and undo Ren’s pants, take out his cock. He’d let Ren do the same to him. They could lie on the floor, sucking each other—

_(pervert)_

Armitage snaps his hand out and swipes the mug off the desk, lets it shatter on the floor—and that’s that. The flowers were dead before, but they’re _ruined_ now, scattered in pieces all across the floor of his studio. Just like everything else he touches, and Armitage feels like shit.

He doesn’t understand why the fuck he continually does things that make him miserable. His thesis is making him miserable. His fake engagement is making him miserable. His fucking _phone_ is making him miserable. Everything he does with his hands, up to and including getting off while fantasizing about Ren—even _that_ makes him miserable, and if he can’t even stop himself from smashing a mug, if he can’t stop himself from ruining something small, like the first bouquet anyone had ever bought him—what hope does he have with the rest of this charade?

(He throws everything out. The flowers, the mug, the canvasses. Every single brush he’s ever owned, all of his paints, everything that’s in his studio that has absolutely nothing to do with Starkiller is purged and pitched, sliced to shreds. There is only Starkiller, and nothing else matters, and Armitage will die alone with his cat and his unfinished thesis, and that will be the end of it and won’t his father be fucking thrilled.)

Armitage sits on the floor of his empty studio for another hour after he’s done purging everything. The only things left are his drafting table, and the prototype of Starkiller hanging from the ceiling. Everything else is trashed.

His phone rings, and he doesn’t answer it.

It rings again.

And again.

And again.

 

When Armitage turns the doorknob and goes into the apartment, he’s immediately met with the sound of breaking glass. Ren is _right there_ , teatowel in his hand, dishes in the sink, and broken glass at his feet.

“Shit,” Armitage says. “Don’t move, I’ll fix it.” His heart is going a mile a minute, pulse pounding in his ears.

Ren stands stock-still, hardly breathing, teatowel covering his left hand as Armitage kneels at his feet, and starts picking up the largest of the glass chunks. It was a clean break—two large pieces, a couple of smaller ones, and a small sparkling of shards that Armitage has to pull out the dustpan for.

Ren doesn’t move the entire time, just stands there, breathing shallowly.

Armitage stands up, dumps the dustpan into the garbage. Turns back to look at Ren, who is—who is inexplicably still standing there. His hair is damp, and he’s wearing a tight black tshirt, and the same darkwash jeans he’d worn the day they’d moved in together, and he looks fucking _good._

“Did you cut yourself?” Armitage asks, not certain whether he wants the answer to be yes or no. He gets woozy at the sight of blood, so probably he wants the answer to be no, but maybe if it’s a small cut he’d be okay, maybe if it’s a small cut, he could just, like, hold Ren’s hand and dab the—

—nope, he’s feeling woozy just thinking about it.

He hopes the answer is no.

Ren shakes his head, sets the dishtowel down on the counter. He’s wearing—he’s wearing his ring, for some reason. It’s the first time Armitage has seen him wear it since—since the discussion they’d had about how they weren’t going to, in public. They weren’t going to, where people could see them—and Armitage had fucked that up royally, but then—but then Ren had come out at work in front of everyone, and then he had gone home and slipped his ring onto his finger, and—and waited, and he’s just—here, in the kitchen—

“I want to do it again,” Ren says, all in a rush. He runs his hand back through his hair, and Armitage watches the black of the ring disappear into his hair, and then reappear when Ren shakes his hand out. “I thought about it all afternoon, and I want…”

Armitage waits. Tries to breathe. _Ren’s fingers, in his belt loops. Ren’s tongue in his mouth. Ren’s cock, pressed up against his own. Armitage, sliding his hands down into Ren’s pants, down the cleft of Ren’s ass, fingertip brushing against Ren’s—_

Ren exhales heavily, steps back. “You didn’t take yours off,” he says, nodding at Armitage’s hand.

Armitage touches the ring with his thumb, turns it on his finger. “You put yours on.” He swallows. Ren’s hand is going to look so _good_ , wrapped around his cock—

“Kiss me?”

Armitage looks at Ren.

“It was—” Ren says. “My.” He looks down at the floor, looks back up at Armitage. “I didn’t get to participate, I want—I want to participate.”

Ren’s lips are pouted, his fucking doe eyes soft and gentle, and he just looks so fucking _vulnerable_ —and Armitage wants to press up against him, strip him down until he’s naked, take him to bed and lick and bite him all over, make him into a mess, fuck into him hard until Ren’s eyes roll back in his head—or straddle his hips and ride him until Ren is sobbing—Armitage is going to devour him, eat him alive—

(He’s going to take _everything_.)

Armitage steps forward, tips his head just fractionally upward, and presses his lips against Ren’s. Fully, this time—not that poorly timed and poorly aimed brush of dry lips against the side of Ren’s face, the corner of his mouth—no, this is a proper kiss, Armitage’s lips right over Ren’s own. Ren’s lips are—warm, and soft, and Armitage can feel Ren shiver underneath him. Armitage moves his lips, opening his mouth slightly, and Ren sighs, kisses him back for a moment before pulling away.

This is going to be good, this is going to be so _good_ —Armitage is going to take Ren apart with his tongue, into small little pieces so that Ren cannot have even half a chance at reconstituting himself on his own. Armitage bites at his lip, looks up at Ren from under his lashes, and Ren is—

—Ren is terrified.

Armitage’s chest seizes.

Ren’s eyes are blown black, but he’s breathing far too heavily for the modest kiss they just shared, is already panting and blinking too fast, his chest heaving and his hands hovering above the counter like he doesn’t know what he’s going to do with them and maybe—

_it was my_

—maybe he doesn’t.

“Oh,” Armitage breathes softly. “This is your first.”

Ren bristles, pulls back. “S-so?”

“Did you like it?” Armitage asks, pitching his voice low.

Ren hesitates—then leans forward, presses his lips against Armitage’s again. It’s—it’s sloppy, inexpert. Ren doesn’t have his head tilted at the right angle and his nose is in the way. He presses his lips against Armitage’s, and then just—stays there, not moving or breathing at all for literal seconds until he pulls away, pants hotly against Armitage’s mouth, and then presses his lips in again, completely unmoving and still.

It’s a fundamentally awful kiss, but Ren has really nice lips, and Ren is just _barely_ taller than Armitage, and he smells like—he smells like Armitage’s soap, just faintly, instead of his own, and Armitage’s heart rate is starting to pick up.

“I’m your first,” Armitage says.

“Yes,” Kylo breathes.

It feels like expensive whiskey curling in his guts, like sitting in front of a roaring fire, like sinking into a hot spring. All Armitage’s vulgar fantasies melt away, and he doesn’t even regret it a little, because what he has in front of him right now—Ren, flayed open and nervous and _waiting_ —is something he’s never had before, something Ren has never shared with another person. Armitage doesn’t need to take what he wants—he can just _give_ everything to Ren, watch him fall apart and take credit for all of it.

“Mmm,” Armitage says. It’s accidental, he doesn’t mean to say anything—but the shock of Ren is just so fucking _nice_ , the way Ren’s breath just _catches_ is amazing, and he doesn’t regret it.

His right hand is reaching involuntarily for Ren’s waist—and so Armitage forces it to the counter, braces his body there, moves a little to the side so that Ren has space to pull back if he needs to, has space to retreat if this is too much—or not enough—

Ren doesn’t retreat, just leans in over Armitage and kisses him back.

This time, when Ren pulls away, Armitage gently licks across his own lips, trying to get a taste of Ren. Ren presses right back in, his lips meeting Armitage’s tongue. Armitage licks again, deliberately this time, dragging his tongue across the seam of Ren’s lips, and Ren—Ren opens his mouth and lets Armitage in, groans against him as Armitage presses in closer, kisses him harder. Their only points of contact are their lips, and even though Armitage can _feel_ the energy of Ren’s body, they aren’t actually touching.

(Armitage doesn’t remember the last time he’d kissed someone without ulterior motives, the last time he’d kissed someone just to kiss them, but Ren doesn’t seem to be making an effort to move things along, so Armitage stays where he is, and just keeps kissing him.)

Ren kisses him again, lips parted, and this time, he presses his own tongue forward, brushes it against Armitage’s and then pulls back. Ren reaches forward and intertwines his fingers with Armitage’s, kisses him again, a little harder this time, mouth closed.

This time, it’s Armitage’s mouth that falls open, and he curses the breathy moan that escapes from him because he really meant to clamp down on that, he meant to swallow it back, he meant to—

—fuck, he’s done it again.

Ren moves his hand, intertwined with Armitage’s, to his own shoulder, lets go, and hesitates a moment.

Armitage slides his hand around the back of Ren’s neck, and Ren sighs and shudders, presses back in for another kiss, this one with his mouth just fractionally open, and Armitage lets him do what he wants, slides his fingers up into Ren’s hair and presses his palm against the back of Ren’s neck, and when Ren pulls away to breathe this time, he stays so close that Armitage can feel Ren’s exhalation across his cheek, and Armitage bites down on his own lip so he doesn’t say anything he regrets.

(His right hand is still braced on the counter, and he moves it forward, searching out Ren’s left hand, and then laces their fingers together, fidgeting with Ren’s ring as he does so. It’s the least he can do, as an apology for all the incorrect assumptions he’d made.)

Ren rests his forehead on Armitage’s shoulder, panting unsteadily into his neck. “Hux,” he slurs, the word dragged out of him. “Holy shit, _Hux_.”

Armitage chuckles. “Oh, aren’t you beautiful,” he says, and he tightens his hand in Ren’s hair, nuzzles against the side of Ren’s face. On instinct, he drags his tongue up and around Ren’s ear, and then nibbles lightly on the edge of it. Ren’s skin tastes really damn good, and Armitage licks his ear again, hesitating a moment before running his tongue around the shell and then lapping right inside Ren’s ear, chasing that hint of soap and clean skin.

Underneath him, Ren shudders, gasps out something that might have been the start of Armitage’s name—and then moans, drawn-out and uneven, against Armitage’s neck, vibrating against his skin.

Armitage licks his ear again. _Fuck_ , his soap tastes good on Ren’s skin.

“Shit,” Ren says distinctly, his voice muffled by Armitage’s shirt.

Armitage steps back to give Ren some room to breathe, gently disentangles his hand from Ren’s hair, squeezes Ren’s other hand in a manner he hopes is reassuring. “Was participating better than just standing there?” he asks.

“I think that was a little too much participating,” Ren says, mouth twisting and eyes sliding off to the side. “I’ll, uh—I’ll be back.”

Armitage bites his lip, watches as Ren disappears around the corner, bathroom door clicking shut firmly behind him as he escapes. He swallows.

(He _knows_ he was good, but maybe Ren just—didn’t _like_ it.)

Armitage opens up his phone, uses the camera as a mirror to adjust his hair—Ren hadn’t ruffled him any more than he already was, between the studio and Phasma, but when he tilts the camera just right, he can see a wet smear at the base of his neck where Ren had exhaled heavily into him.

His cock is hard, and he ignores it. It certainly wasn’t the kissing—but if it wasn’t the kissing, then it must have been _Ren_ , inexperience and all, and that’s a horrible thing for Armitage to get hung up on, because inexperience is finite, and his obsession with Ren has been a thing he’s held close to his chest for quite some time, and he’d hate to think he’ll have to let it go once Ren gets some experience under his belt—

“Hey,” Ren says, voice low.

Armitage turns to look at him, and something in his chest clenches. He reaches up absently, rubs his sternum, wonders if this is what having a heart attack feels like. Ren’s lips are swollen from kissing, and he’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, and he looks so fucking good that Armitage wants to scream—except it’s not the looking that’s the problem, it’s the part where Ren is so tentative and kind and gentle and Armitage is absolutely none of those things, is masquerading as an asshole when he’s actually a degenerate pervert—

Armitage bites down hard on his own lip. Whatever Ren had done in the bathroom, he hadn’t done fuck-all to his hair. It’s still a disaster in the back from where Armitage had his hand wound into it. Come to think of it, the toilet hadn’t flushed either—and Ren is still wearing the same shirt, but he’s wearing grey sweatpants now instead of jeans and—

—he’s wearing grey sweatpants instead of jeans.

Armitage looks up at Ren, cocks his eyebrow—and Ren catches his eye, flushes instantly, brilliantly, goes bright red from the tips of his ears all the way down to his neck.

_I think that was a little too much participating._

— _oh_ , Armitage thinks.

_Oh_.

(Ren will get sick of him sooner rather than later, the fake engagement will fall to pieces before they even approach a wedding—but Ren is gay, and Ren is beautiful, and Ren is—wearing sweatpants now, because of Armitage, because of Armitage’s mouth, because of Armitage’s teeth on the shell of his ear, Armitage’s tongue laving over his skin. Nice things are for nice people, and so Armitage never gets anything—but, oh, maybe he can just have this for a little bit. Just a bit.)

“Ren,” he says warmly. He waits for Ren to look up, and then deliberately sweeps his eyes over the entire length of Ren’s body—those soft vulnerable eyes, and cock-sucking lips, his fitted tshirt and the ugly sweats he’s wearing now—before he looks deliberately over at the bed, and then back up at Ren.

“Again?” Armitage asks.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the chapter title is a clipping. reference. (specifically, it's [this clipping. reference.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OH3JiW-hTEk))
> 
> Also, I hurt my own feelings with this chapter. Well, I hurt Deadsy's feelings first. But then I hurt my own immediately afterwards.
> 
> Speaking of feelings, [the blog post is over here](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/04/14/dtd-chapter-six-breakdown/), and it goes into a little of why I characterized Armitage and Kylo the way I did for this piece.


	7. guidelines, more than rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions are had, and some changes occur.
> 
> The changes are not much related to the discussions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my eternal thanks to @deadsy, who betas all my work and holds my hand through all my problems. @valda took a copyedit run at this chapter as well, and @splintered_star gave me feedback on a transition I was having trouble with.

“Again?” Hux asks.

Kylo’s breath catches in his chest. _Fuck_ , Hux looks so goddamn perfect right now. He must’ve run his hand through his hair while Kylo was gone, and his pushed-back hair accentuates his cheekbones. His hands are on his hips, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, and he’s flat-out smirking at Kylo. It’s not the derisive smirk that he uses at work when Kylo is fucking things up, though—this is different.

(Softer.)

Hux arches an eyebrow. “Or shall I order pizza?”

_Again_ , Kylo wants to say, but his knees are still wobbly from the last time and he isn’t certain he can trust his voice if he opens his mouth, and Hux is just— _there_ , and he’s stunning, and Kylo still can’t quite believe—

“Pizza, then,” Hux says, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Is it the north place you ordered from last time? They were good.”

“Uh, yeah,” Kylo says, shocked that Hux has actually agreed that a thing Kylo did was _good_ , much less—much less any of the rest of this, because—because he’d asked for a kiss, and Hux had said yes? And Hux had kissed him? And it was amazing? “I, uh.”

“I suppose you want that thing you had last time, with all the meat on it?”

Kylo swallows, hard. Nods.

“It’s fine, you know,” Hux says casually, staring down at his phone. “It’s not like I mind.” He looks up at Kylo, swipes his tongue over his lips, teeth briefly biting into his bottom lip. “You know that I wasn’t aware?”

“I ordered that pizza last—”

Hux clicks his tongue, and Kylo goes silent for a moment.

“That I was gay,” Kylo says unsteadily.

“Precisely,” Hux replies. He looks back down at his phone again, swipes and taps with his left index finger. “I may not have said yes, if I’d known.”

“Well, I knew,” Kylo says, a little belligerently. “It’s not like it matters.”

Hux looks up at him, pockets his phone. “ _Doesn’t_ it matter?”

“I just—”

“It _complicates_ things,” Hux says.

Kylo shrugs. “Weren’t things complicated already?”

Hux looks up at him, eyes narrowed, before softening a little, doing another one of those full-body sweeps up and down Kylo.

Kylo’s face is hot. His entire _body_ is hot. He already regrets switching into sweatpants—he’d forgotten to grab underwear on his way into the bathroom, figuring that there’s no way he’d be able to get aroused again after how hard Hux had made him come—but he hadn’t exactly counted on Hux looking at him like _that_.

“Perhaps,” Hux says vaguely, turning away and going back to the kitchen. He opens the fridge, and Kylo can hear bottles clinking. “Beer?” he asks, muffled.

Kylo hazards a look over to the kitchen. Hux is bent over in front of the fridge, jeans clinging to his legs, outlining his ass. Kylo blushes, and looks away. “Yes, please.”

“So _polite_ ,” Hux says.

“My mother taught me manners,” Kylo says awkwardly.

“That’s nice for you,” Hux says flatly. He knocks the beer bottle against the counter to flip the cap off, and then does the same with the other beer, hands the first one to Kylo while he takes a long pull off the second. “Shouldn’t be too long on the food.”

“Okay,” Kylo says. He takes a drink of his beer, and then shuffles backward a little, sits down on the corner of the bed.

Hux leans against the wall, watches him. He untucks his shirt with one hand, fastidiously pulling it out, and running his hand down it after.

“I watched you, constantly,” Kylo says. “I thought you knew…”

Hux snorts, takes another drink of his beer. “You needed direction,” he says. “I’m the only one in that fucking shop who knows what they’re doing, of _course_ you were watching me.”

“That’s not why I was watching you,” Kylo mutters.

“And I suppose the next thing you’ll tell me is that you fucked up all those times because you were too distracted from watching me to pay attention?”

Kylo can feel the blush happening. He tries to hide it by taking a drink of his beer, but out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hux’s mouth curve into a smirk.

It’s the truth, is the worst part—Kylo’s got a good memory, and it’s not like he hasn’t spent enough time around coffeeshops in his life to know exactly how they work, how the drinks are made, how things are supposed to go. But there’s just something about Hux that leaves him—absolutely frazzled. He’s never been any good at keeping his head when Hux has been involved.

He puts his beer between his knees, holds the bottle there, rubs his right foot on top of his left. Runs his hand back through his hair again, feels the knots snagging on the ring around his finger. He darts a quick look over at Hux—but Hux is still wearing his too, and it stands out starkly against his pale hand.

Hux is holding his beer bottle low at his side now, the neck of it held loosely between his fingers. He’s gnawing at his bottom lip again, and staring at _Kylo_ , at the beer bottle Kylo is holding between his legs, and then—

—and then at his face.

Kylo’s breath catches.

“You have fantastic lips,” Hux murmurs.

“D-do I?” Kylo asks.

“Absolutely,” Hux says, and his voice is lengthening out, vowels richer and thicker and _rounder_ somehow.

Kylo takes a nervous drink of his beer. “Yeah?”

“Ask me,” Hux says, his voice pitched low. “Use your words.”

“Will you kiss me again?” Kylo asks steadily.

Hux scoffs. “Less like a homework assignment,” he says. “I’m not an essay.” He takes a deep drink of his beer. “I _am_ practice, though.”

“For?”

“For when you do this for real.” Hux grins at him, tight and wolfish. “Ask me again.”

Kylo takes a deep breath, stands up. He doesn’t entirely trust his legs, but he’s going to do this. He sets his beer down by the corner of the bed, crosses the room to stand next to Hux. The height difference between them is pronounced now—Hux is slouched down against the breakfast bar, hip cocked, and he tips his head to look up at Kylo as Kylo approaches.

“I want to kiss you,” Kylo says.

“So kiss me,” Hux counters.

“How do I know, though,” Kylo asks. “I didn’t—not until you kissed me on the sidewalk—”

Hux’s mouth twists. “That wasn’t a kiss.”

“It was too,” Kylo says. He still remembers exactly how it felt—Hux’s lips pressed against his, Hux’s body so close he could feel the heat of him. It was just—so quick, it was over so quickly, and he hadn’t expected it, didn’t think Hux would deign to touch him, thought he would last the entirety of this fake engagement just banking on the press of Hux’s body against his own in the middle of the night and the early hours of the morning.

Hux curls his lip, brings his beer up from where he’s been holding it at his side and finishes it off, slides the empty bottle onto the breakfast bar. “Well,” he says, accent still softer than Kylo is used to hearing it. “Asking is good.”

Kylo nods.

“Telegraphing your intentions is good,” Hux says. He lifts his hand, holds it up where Kylo can see it, watches Kylo intently.

Kylo looks at Hux’s hand, and then back at Hux’s face. “I don’t get it.”

“I’m watching you,” Hux says softly. “And I’m going to just bring my hand closer to you—like this—” He reaches forward, hovers his hand just above Kylo’s cheek. “You’re not turning away,” he says. “Or shifting. You’re very, very still right now.”

“Yes,” Kylo breathes. He can _smell_ Hux, standing this close to him, and Hux’s hand is so close to his face—

“So either I die of waiting,” Hux says softly, “or you turn your face into my hand, so that I know you want it.”

Kylo turns his face into Hux’s hand, presses a kiss to Hux’s palm, and then darts his tongue out and licks at the silicone ring on Hux’s fourth finger.

Hux makes a small noise of surprise.

Kylo turns his face back more toward Hux, Hux’s hand still cradling his cheek. “But now what?”

“I’m—I’m not moving either,” Hux says. “You may either—ask, if you want to do a thing, or take—take my implied consent and…”

“And?”

Hux scowls at him, pats Kylo lightly on the cheek. “Kiss me, you arse,” he says. He pulls his hand back, hooks it back into the belt loop of his jeans. “Or don’t, the food will be here shortly anyway. You can’t possibly be so—”

Kylo leans forward and kisses him, Hux’s lips directly against his own. _Fuck_ , kissing Hux is amazing—Hux’s lips are soft in a way that Kylo never imagined anything about Hux could be soft, and before Kylo overthinks it, he’s raising his hand and placing it against the side of Hux’s face, the exact same way that Hux had been touching him. Hux’s sideburn is under his palm, and he can feel a bit of scruff on Hux’s cheek under his thumb. Hux tips his head, presses into the contact—and so Kylo does the same with his other hand, frames Hux’s face in his hands and leans his forehead against Hux’s own, takes a minute just to breathe.

Hux mutters something against Kylo’s lips.

“What?”

Hux brings his own hands up, places them over Kylo’s. “The _size_ of you.”

Kylo pulls back a little, looks at Hux. Looks at his hands framing Hux’s face, Hux’s hands overtop. “I didn’t know my hands were so much bigger than yours,” he says.

Hux makes a noncommittal sound, kisses Kylo again. Kylo can feel himself starting to get hard, and he starts blushing as soon as he notices.

“Hux, I—”

Hux kisses him again, pulls back. “Yes?”

Kylo drops his hands from Hux’s face to his shoulders. “I, uh.” What is he supposed to say, how is he supposed to find the words for how intense this all is for him? He feels a bit like a fucking idiot, because he’s already breathing quicker than usual, and Hux is just standing there waiting, just as calm and collected as he usually is—but also, Hux had been making sounds the last time they’d kissed, and if Hux had made noise that time, maybe if Kylo just—does it again, maybe he can—

His hands tighten on Hux’s shoulders, and he goes in again with his mouth. It’s clumsier this time, and his nose is in the wrong spot, jammed up against Hux’s face, and their teeth clack together for a moment before Kylo figures out how to move his face so that they’re not colliding all the time, and—

—and Kylo can feel the little hitch in Hux’s breath. He opens his mouth a little more, kisses Hux a little harder. Runs his hands down Hux’s arms until he reaches Hux’s hands, and then holds each of Hux’s hands in his own, squeezing them tight, and then suddenly realizing that his own hands are sweaty, palms damp, and he’s just—he’s just touched that to Hux—

He loosens his hands immediately, tries to pull away, and Hux’s fingers tighten for a moment before loosening.

“Er,” Hux says. He steps back, his back bumping against the breakfast bar, and then fixes the hem of his shirt, eyes glancing downward.

“My hands are sweaty,” Kylo blurts.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Hux says wryly. He lets go of his shirt, extends his hands palm-out to Kylo.

Kylo hesitates.

“We can hold hands if you want to hold hands,” Hux says. “It’s just sweat.”

Kylo hesitates again. “You’re not sweating.”

“It’s not my first time either,” Hux says, but he’s not cruel or mean about it—just states it as a fact, and then takes another step forward, and puts his hands on top of Kylo’s, interlaces their fingers back together. “And you could use some practice, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kylo breathes, and he brings his lips back toward Hux, tips his face the way he’s supposed to, and kisses Hux again, opening his mouth slightly, and it’s—it’s better with the open mouth, it’s better when he doesn’t pull back so far to breathe, when he just exhales across Hux’s skin. Hux’s hands are holding his own firmly, and it’s—it’s nice, even though Kylo can feel himself sweating with nerves, can feel a trickle of sweat running down his lower back, but Hux’s hands are in his, and Hux’s lips are on his, and Hux is—holy fuck, Kylo can’t believe that he’s actually _kissing_ Hux, he’s kissing Hux and Hux is kissing him back. Kylo’s dick is fully hard now, and he should definitely stop so he doesn’t embarrass himself again, especially now that he’s wearing sweatpants instead of jeans, but ducking away would mean he’d have to stop kissing Hux and Kylo doesn’t _want_ to stop so he opens his mouth a little more, tentatively presses his tongue forward—

—Hux moans, a quick sound cut off before it properly gets started, so Kylo darts out his tongue again. He has no idea what he’s doing—his tongue feels entirely too big and too soft, he doesn’t really know what to do other than to lick at Hux’s lips with it, and Hux moans again, and it sends a chill through Kylo’s body, because Hux sounds _amazing_ , and Kylo is—Kylo is making that happen, Kylo is doing that to him, Kylo is causing Hux to make those noises—

—Kylo’s hands twitch in Hux’s, and Hux squeezes his hands reassuringly, tips his head away a moment to breathe.

“Here,” Hux breathes against his skin. “Try licking my neck.”

“Your—neck?”

“I’ll do the ear thing you like,” Hux says, and there’s a bit of a lilt in his voice that Kylo’s never heard before.

It does Kylo in completely. He would do absolutely anything Hux wanted in this moment, and so he bends his head to Hux’s neck, and starts kissing Hux there.

Hux inhales sharply, hands twitching in Kylo’s.

“Like this?” Kylo murmurs into Hux’s neck. He kisses Hux’s neck again, drags his tongue across Hux’s skin. He can taste him, and it’s—sweet, almost, and his skin is soft, and Kylo wants to just keep kissing him so _badly_ —

Hux kisses the edge of Kylo’s ear, and Kylo shudders.

“Hux, holy shit—” He tries to focus on kissing Hux, on kissing his neck, but he’s getting sloppy about it, he knows he is—his teeth scrape on Hux’s skin, and Hux moans again, and Kylo can feel the sound vibrating through his skin. Hux is just so—so _overwhelming_ —

Hux uses his teeth, bites down gently on the edge of Kylo’s ear. Kylo’s ears are so hot, he’s certain they’re burning bright red—they have to be, with the way they feel right now—but Hux’s tongue is all over his ear, Hux’s tongue is slipping _inside_ his ear again, and Kylo should tell him to stop, Kylo should definitely tell him to stop because this is exactly what made him come in his pants last time—but _fuck_ , Hux’s tongue is right there and it feels fucking amazing, and Kylo is kissing Hux’s neck and Hux _tastes_ amazing, and—

—and fuck fuck _fuck_ —

“Hux, shit,” Kylo says into Hux’s neck. “Hux, fuck, I. Hux. Hux. H-hux.”

“Yes,” Hux breathes into his ear

That’s it—Kylo is close to coming for the second time. His hand goes automatically to cover himself, as though it’s possible for him to stop himself somehow—but it’s absolutely not, and the pressure of his own hand over his cock pushes him over the edge. His knees go weak as he comes, sagging a little against Hux, keeping his hips tilted away so that Hux can’t—Hux can’t feel him, or— _fuck_ this is embarrassing, Kylo can feel it soaking through his sweats—oh, _fuck_ , this is a disaster, this is awful, this is—this is terrible, this is—Hux will definitely be over it now, this is—

This is Hux’s hand in his hair, petting softly at the back of his neck. This is Hux’s other hand, still entwined in Kylo’s own. This is Hux—

The apartment’s buzzer sounds.

“Fucking _christ_ ,” Hux snarls, and he pulls back, straightens his shirt.

Kylo looks down at himself. He’s a fucking mess—his hand is still cupped over his crotch, but the fabric of his sweats is distinctly darkened in a few different places, and Hux—

Kylo looks up. Hux is making eye contact with him, chewing on his lip. There’s a faint mark on Hux’s neck, just at the edge of his collar where Kylo’s mouth had been.

“Shit,” Kylo says. “Your, uh. Your neck.”

Hux’s hand comes up to his neck, rubs at the skin there. “Marked me, did you?”

“Fuck,” Kylo says. “I’m so sorry—”

Hux leans forward, kisses Kylo lightly on the lips. “I don’t mind,” he says softly. He watches Kylo’s face for a moment or two, and then deftly does the buttons of his shirt up to his neck. “There, I’m good now, yeah?”

Kylo already misses seeing the evidence. “Y-yeah.”

The buzzer sounds again, and Hux rolls his eyes.

“I’ll look after it,” he says. His eyes briefly skip down Kylo’s body, and then back up to Kylo’s face—and Hux is flushed now, colour blooming high in his cheeks. “Do what you need to do, yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” Kylo says. He feels shattered, weak-kneed enough that he actually leans against the wall the moment that Hux steps into the entrance. Kylo waits until he hears the door open, and then snick quietly shut as Hux steps into the hall to speak with the delivery person. Kylo takes advantage of the space to walk on wobbly legs back to the bathroom, where he shucks off his sweatpants and washes his hands in the sink, digs a facecloth out from the drawer and wets it, carefully washes himself off, cringing at how—how _embarrassing_ this all is, to have come twice in such a short stretch from something that didn’t appear to have affected Hux in the slightest. _Fuck_ , he’s a goddamn mess, and Hux is going to be tired of it, be tired of _him_ , it’s such a disaster—

—he can hear the door to the apartment close again, and then, faintly, from the kitchen, the sound of Hux whistling.

Maybe it’s not all that bad, then.

Kylo hangs up his washcloth and goes to the closet for another set of pants. He should feel awkward—hell, he should feel embarrassed—but the whistling means that Hux feels good, and if Hux feels good—dammit, Kylo is gonna feel good too.

Plus, Hux bought pizza.

They’re gonna have a good night.

 

_Kylo: Are you alright?_

_Kylo: You seemed off this morning._

_Hux: I’m fine._

_Hux: It’s my cat._

_Kylo: Is she okay?_

_Hux: Aren’t you in class?_

_Kylo: Back of the lecture hall. Prof can’t see me._

_Kylo: Is your cat okay?_

_Hux: She’s fine. She just can’t stay at the place she’s at much longer, and I’m having trouble finding somewhere that will take her._

_Kylo: Why wouldn’t she just come stay with us, Hux?_

_Kylo: I told you, I love cats._

_Kylo: She can come stay with us. I’d love to have her._

_Hux: This is a bad idea._

_Kylo: If it doesn’t work out, we can re-evaluate._

_Kylo: How about the end of the week? That gives me a bit to get my studio sorted out and cat-proofed._

_Kylo: Does she like cat toys? I should get her some presents._

_Hux: You’re supposed to be in class._

_Kylo: Can she have catnip?_

_Kylo: What about those little things with the bells in them?_

_Kylo: Oh! Little birds she can attack?_

_Hux: Don’t make me regret this._

_Kylo: I swear you won’t._

_Kylo: It’s gonna be so good._

_Kylo: So. Small problem._

_Hux: What._

_Kylo: I missed my bus, and I’ll be late getting home._

_Hux: That’s fine. I’m here, and I’ll be here when my cat gets here._

_Kylo:…_

_Kylo: I was hoping we could make out before your cat got here?_

_Hux: Well, I’d start walking then, if I were you._

 

He can’t get enough of how Hux _tastes_ , holy fuck. He had no idea, no goddamn idea, that this was what he was missing out on all those years.

“Open your mouth,” he slurs into Hux’s ear. “I wanna—I wanna lick you, can I lick you?”

Underneath him, Hux snorts, wriggles around a bit. “Lemme get my arms free,” he says. “I’m drowning in this fucking bed.”

“Shit,” Kylo says. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” He jams his arm under Hux’s shoulders, clumsily hauls Hux closer to the top of the bed where the pillows are.

“Now I’m drowning in your pillows,” Hux says. “Charming.”

Kylo ducks his head, leaves a row of soft kisses along Hux’s jaw. He’s distracted by the weight of Hux in his arms, the way Hux just lets himself be dragged about.

Hux tips his head up and kisses Kylo gently on the lips, and Kylo’s entire body tingles.

Kylo buries his head in Hux’s shoulder and starts kissing his neck. “You taste so fucking _good_ , how do you taste so fucking good?”

Hux chuckles underneath him, but doesn’t say anything, just turns his face toward Kylo and lets himself be kissed.

By the time they break apart, Kylo is breathing heavily, and his entire body feels overheated. Hux looks—Hux looks angelic, looks completely unaffected except for the chunk of hair that’s fallen forward into his eyes. Kylo brushes it back with his hand, and Hux lets him, looking up at him with those goddamn eyes—

Kylo flops onto his back, cock throbbing and hard, and throws his arm over his eyes, wills himself to calm down.

(Hux hasn’t said anything, not since those first disastrous times, which he was polite enough to ignore—but Kylo doesn’t know how to talk about it, doesn’t know how conversations about that sort of thing are supposed to go, and he doesn’t think he’s quite ready for doing anything more than what they’re doing, but—but _fuck_ , Hux gets him so close to the edge so fucking _easily_.)

“We should talk,” Hux says. He’s chewing at his lip again, and has propped himself up on one elbow to look down at Kylo.

“Uh, okay,” Kylo says, a little tentatively, peering out from under his arm. “Is this about your cat?”

“No,” Hux says. “We need to—set some rules.”

Kylo’s stomach twists. “Rules?”

“Guidelines,” Hux clarifies. He’s not looking Kylo in the eyes, is staring, instead, at Kylo’s—arm, or something, tapping his fingers against the comforter. “For how this continues.”

Kylo’s stomach untwists a little, because “continues” is a good word, “continues” is a promising word, “continues” means that this isn’t a discussion about how Kylo is terrible, this week of kissing has been a mistake, and Hux would like to undo the entire thing and pretend it hadn’t happened.

Hux clears his throat. “As the … older, more experienced one, it’s important that I—don’t take advantage of you, and—”

Kylo swallows, hard. Wishes that Hux hadn’t used the phrase “take advantage of” because now it’s all that he can think about, can hardly even pay attention to—to whatever the fuck else Hux is saying, because now he’s wondering what it would be like if Hux _did_ take advantage, pinned Kylo up against a wall, and—and forced him to—do whatever Hux wants. (To be honest, Kylo has no idea what that is—it’s an entire nebulous area that Kylo just doesn’t understand, because Hux hasn’t pushed Kylo for anything, hasn’t asked for anything other than, occasionally, for Kylo to kiss his neck when he wants to use his lips and his tongue on Kylo’s ears, and even that is far more for Kylo’s benefit than Hux’s own.)

“—better than when we started, is all,” Hux is saying.

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “Yeah, yeah, okay. I can—yeah, okay.”

Hux leans down into Kylo’s space, his eyes intense and sharp. There’s a dark purple bruise low on his neck, only visible because the top two buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned, exposing a hint of collarbone. “Sound okay?” Hux asks.

“Yeah,” Kylo says, his voice rough. “Yeah, that sounds okay to me, Hux.”

“Good,” Hux breathes.

He’s so close to Kylo that Kylo feels the exhalation on his face, wants nothing more than to kiss Hux again—and so he does, pushing himself up awkwardly and pressing his lips to Hux’s. The angle is bad at first, their noses in the way, but then Hux tips his head a little to the side and everything slots together perfectly, Kylo’s tongue is in Hux’s mouth and Hux _likes_ it, is making these small little breathy noises—

The buzzer rings.

“Ignore it,” Kylo murmurs against Hux’s lips—but Hux is already moving, rolling off the side of the bed gracefully and darting into the bathroom to fix his hair, emerging almost immediately tugging at the hem of his shirt.

Hux doesn’t even have the decency to look flushed as he presses the buzzer. Kylo, on the other hand, feels _wrecked_. He flops onto his back, stretches out. Wonders if his cock tenting out his jeans is attractive, wonders if Hux will look back at him and be so overcome that he’ll have to come back to bed for more kissing, wonders if—

“Millie!” Hux exclaims at the door.

Kylo scrambles for a pillow, manages to get it over his crotch and comb his fingers through his hair before a tall blonde woman carrying some kind of massive cat apparatus comes right into the apartment, sets the thing down with a resounding thunk. Her eyes scan over the apartment, and Kylo suddenly wishes that he’d spent more time organizing his painting area, and maybe also that he’d gotten the fuck out of bed, but he’s stuck here now until his hardon goes away, which hopefully it will, because hopefully he can just stop thinking about Hux for half a minute, and how damn good Hux’s lips feel and—oh, oh fuck, she’s looking at him now, and—

— _fuck_ , it’s the woman from the gym. If it were possible for Kylo to just fade away completely, he would do that. He would definitely do that.

“Uh, hi,” he says instead, and he sounds like a fucking idiot.

“Kylo Ren,” she says evenly.

He is suddenly very conscious that he’s lying on the bed in the middle of the day with a pillow over his crotch. His face is probably still flushed from kissing Hux. “So, uh. I didn’t know you knew Hux.”

She smiles at him, and it’s a vicious sharp thing that cuts right through Kylo’s heart, killing off the last of his hardon. “I don’t talk about my personal life with clients.”

“Right,” Kylo says, setting the pillow aside and sliding off the bed, standing up and approaching her with his hand extended. “I’m Hux’s, uh, fiancé.”

“I’ve heard that,” she says. She doesn’t take his hand.

Kylo looks over to Hux for a little guidance, because he can tell that he’s failing this hard—and is completely taken aback. “What the fuck is that,” he breathes.

“This is Millie,” Hux says, his face nearly buried in some kind of furry monstrosity that’s the size of Hux’s entire torso. “She’s so happy to be back, isn’t she?”

Kylo blinks. Hux’s cat is _massive._ He didn’t even know cats came in that size—he’d been imagining a little black kitten, or maybe one of those weird bald cats because Hux seems just pretentious enough to have one of those—but no, the thing he’s got is absolutely huge, covered in long ginger fur, and, when Hux turns and picks up her cat carrier, moves it off to the side, Hux’s cat _glares_ at him over Hux’s shoulder. One of her ears is notched, her eyes are different colours, and she looks _furious_.

“So beautiful,” Hux murmurs into the ruff of fur around her neck. “Look at you, you’ve gotten so much bigger!”

Kylo looks uncertainly over at Phasma, who rolls her eyes.

“Nice place,” Phasma says flatly. “He didn’t tell me it was this fancy, but that explains a lot.”

“Thank you,” Kylo says hesitantly. He has the vague feeling he’s being insulted, but isn’t quite sure how.

“It’s yours?”

He nods, runs his hand back through his hair and sits down at the edge of the bed. Hux is still cuddling with his monstrous cat, hasn’t so much as looked up or come any further into the apartment than the kitchen since Phasma showed up.

“Ah,” she says. “So—you asked him to marry you. You picked the rings. You moved him into your swanky apartment.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“What are you charging him for rent? You making him pay a half share, or are you discounting him?”

Kylo freezes, but not before he’s looked to the side, to the drawer that he’d shoved Hux’s untouched envelope of cash into. “Uh, it’s. You know. With the upcoming wedding and everything.”

“Oh?” she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “When?”

“We’re still…” Kylo starts—but his voice trails off immediately. He feels—off-balance, like what he’s done isn’t enough, like what he’s doing isn’t enough. Like _he’s_ not enough. Like she’s looking at him and judging him and finding him wanting, and if she finds him wanting, she’s going to tell Hux that he’s wanting, and then—and then the kisses will stop, and the hands on his face will stop, and the—

“You going to pick the date too?” Phasma asks.

“Hey, I—”

“Leave him be,” Hux says, mostly to his cat.

Both Kylo and Phasma turn to look at him.

“Leave him be, Phasma,” Hux repeats. He looks up at her, mouth tight. “You know it’s a fake engagement. Don’t harass Kylo about details we haven’t worked out yet.”

Kylo feels like the bottom is falling out of his stomach. “You _knew_?”

Phasma sets her jaw, looks back at Kylo without saying anything.

_Well, fuck you too_ , Kylo thinks, but he bites down on his tongue and lifts his chin and waits.

“I knew,” she admits.

“Okay,” Kylo says steadily. And then, before Kylo can bite down on the words, they escape anyway. “Do I pass muster?”

Unexpectedly, she laughs. “Oh, Armitage,” she says. “You fuckhead.”

Kylo looks over at Hux, but he hasn’t reacted in any way to anything Phasma has said.

Phasma slides the bag on her shoulder off, sets it down on the floor. “I’ll be in touch. Nice to see you again, Kylo.”

“Ah, sure,” Kylo says. He watches her go, waits until the door has firmly shut behind her before he says anything. “I don’t think she likes me very much,” he offers hesitantly.

“Who,” Hux says, “Phasma?”

“Yeah.”

“She doesn’t like anybody,” he says. He crouches back down, extends his hand out to Millie. “Come here, pretty girl,” he coos.

 His cat ignores him.

“She knows about the fake engagement, though.” Kylo doesn’t mean for his voice to come out like it does—but by the time he realizes it’s got far more of a whine in it than what he intended, it’s too late because it’s already happened. _Fuck_ , he just wants to go back to how things were earlier, when he and Hux were making out on the bed. Everything was easier then, and now everything’s gotten—gotten all complicated again.

Hux looks up, finally. There are ginger cat hairs down the front of his black shirt. “Are you trying to tell me that you didn’t tell _anybody_ that it was fake?”

Kylo looks away. “I might have—”

“See?” Hux interrupts. “Don’t shame me for my friends when you’ve already told yours.” He reaches out, manages a quick pet across Millie’s back as she stalks back over to the kitchen. “Anyway,” Hux says, pulling a bag out of the inside of the cat apparatus and hunting around inside it. “Phasma’s the only friend I have, and she’s the only one who knows.” He pulls out a lint roller, and then starts carefully removing the cat hair from his clothing. “So your secret’s safe with me.”

_You’re the one who didn’t want to tell_ , Kylo thinks—but he doesn’t want to be the one to say anything.

 

Millie’s arrival is enough of an upset that the rest of the day is spent just trying to settle her in—finding a place for her litterbox, a place for her food dish and her water fountain, somewhere for her cat tree. Kylo had hoped that it would be as easy as just setting everything up, and then falling back into bed with Hux for more kisses—but Hux is particular about the exact placement of everything, and by the time it’s all sorted, it’s evening.

Hux is sitting on the floor in the corner by the window, holding Millie in his lap and gently combing her, fastidiously picking the loose fur out of the brush after every stroke and putting it into some kind of—cat hair container.

Kylo can’t concentrate on painting—not when Hux is right there in his peripheral vision, fussing over his cat—so he retreats to bed with his journal instead, carefully documents everything that had happened that day. He hesitates just before adding the more physical details—and then switches over to Latin, and documents the intimate revelations that way. After he’s done documenting everything, he carefully draws a neat line across the page, and then starts free-writing anything that comes into his mind, anything he’s worried about, anything he’s concerned about, until he runs out of things to write—and he’s not at all surprised when the last line on the page reads _what if he’s just not into me._

Sighing, Kylo looks across the room. Hux is still wedged into the corner by the window, murmuring softly to Millie, and continuing to brush her. The little container Hux has been placing the loose fur in now looks full enough to start construction on a second cat.

“I think I’ll get ready for bed,” Kylo says.

No response.

“Did you need the bathroom?”

Silence.

“Hux?”

Hux looks up. “What?”

Kylo sighs again. “I’m going to have a shower and get ready for bed. I have to be at the library early tomorrow. Did you want to bathe first?”

“Oh,” Hux says. “No, thank you. I’m fine, I’ll just head to bed shortly.”

Kylo closes his journal a little louder than usual, tucks it underneath his pillow, and gets out of bed, pulls the comforter over to the side. (Hux had, at some point, spread Kylo’s comforter out over the entire bed, so that everything looked normal for Phasma—but, sure enough, Hux’s own comforter and sheets, folded away from Kylo, are still right there underneath.)

Kylo runs the shower hot like he normally does, strips down and shoves his clothes in the hamper. He’ll have to do laundry mid-week this week—he’s running out of pants, and also, he’s pretty sure Hux is going to be unimpressed if Kylo’s laundry starts spilling out over the edges of his hamper. He’s already hard by the time he steps into the shower, and finally getting his hand on his dick is a relief. He thinks of Hux’s lips on his, thinks of that moaning sound Hux makes when Kylo kisses his neck. It’s the only thing he knows Hux likes for sure—everything else Hux maybe just tolerates—but Hux likes Kylo’s mouth on his neck, Hux likes Kylo’s tongue on his skin, Hux likes—Hux likes—Hux—

His orgasm hits him quick and sudden, over as soon as it starts.

“Ouch,” Kylo mutters. He takes his hand out of his mouth, looks at the teeth indentations. “Fuck.”

He rinses the come off his other hand, washes and conditions his hair. Shaves, just in case. Brushes his teeth for a full five minutes, gargles with mouthwash. It’s the most diligent he’s been about his oral health since his braces came off—but it occurs to him as he flosses that it might not matter, because if Hux is going to pet his cat instead of having a bath, maybe he’ll just—maybe he’ll just pet his cat instead of kissing Kylo, too. Maybe this is how things are, now.

“Things are okay,” Kylo whispers to himself in the mirror. “She’s just a cat. Everything’s okay.”

When Kylo emerges from the bathroom, dressed in boxers, sweatpants, and a t-shirt, Hux is already in bed. The lights in the apartment are all off except for the bedside light on Kylo’s side of the headboard, which Hux has switched on. Hux’s set of covers are tucked up around his ears, like they usually are, and he’s facing Kylo’s side of the bed, like he usually is, and maybe—maybe tonight, Kylo will face Hux, instead of facing the wall, so he can feel Hux’s even, sleep-steady breathing on his face. Kylo crosses over to his side of the bed, ready to put his new plan into action, and—

And Hux is cradling the fucking cat.

She’s monstrous lying down too, the ruff of fur framing her face looking much more like a lion’s mane when she’s like this, sprawled out in a furry toddler-sized lump and blinking smugly back at Kylo.

If Kylo were petty, he would nudge Hux awake, tell him that between him and his cat, he’s taking up much more than his allotted half of the bed (and if he’s going to get the surprise of Hux’s sleep-heavy weight against him in the middle of the night when Hux has forgotten where he is and rolled over, well, he’s not going to get that with the fucking cat in the way). But he’s not like that—or, at least, he doesn’t want to be like that—so instead, he just carefully crawls under his blankets, turns out his light, closes his eyes, and tries to sleep.

It takes him a few minutes—okay, maybe closer to an hour—to get used to the cat purring, humming like it’s a fucking engine, but Hux’s cat doesn’t try to bat Kylo on the nose or curl up to him, so that’s good. That’s definitely good.

He rolls over and sleeps facing the wall anyway.

 

Kylo wakes again a few hours later to the sound of Hux murmuring to his cat.

“Shhhh, baby, shhhhh, shhhhhhh.”

The cat mrows irritably.

“No,” Hux whispers firmly. “You had your cuddles. Now I get mine. Go play in your treehouse.”

There’s a soft thump from the other side of the bed.

A few moments after that, Hux’s narrow-shouldered body nudges up against Kylo’s.

Kylo can’t suppress his smile—but he’s still facing the wall, so Hux can’t see it.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the chapter title is a very oblique Pirates references.
> 
> The blog post for this chapter is [over here!](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/04/22/dtd-chapter-seven-breakdown/) This one chats about time skips, pacing, Phasma, Millie, and also delves into mental illness (my own) a bit, and how that can impact my writing process. Hope to see you there!


	8. spilled milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage hates Starkiller.
> 
> His phone keeps ringing.
> 
> Everything is going to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my thanks to Deadsy, who betas everything for me, and valda, who does the copy-edits! (And a special thanks to Deadsy who helped me out with the art terminology words in this chapter, though obviously any screwups are definitely mine.)
> 
> As a heads-up for this chapter, there's a fair amount of drinking that happens, but it's 'pleasant' drinking (ie, no one is ill from it, everyone has a good if clumsy time, etc). If you have any questions or anything, please don't hesitate to send me a message on twitter or tumblr, I'm at heyktula on both platforms.

Armitage fucking _hates_ Starkiller. It’s a shitty concept for a thesis, and a terrible piece to have hung his ability to graduate on. The only thing keeping him from dropping it off the top of the arts building is that the last time he’d gone up there for an art shoot, they’d cordoned off and triple-secured the access door, and he’s not hauling Starkiller all the way up there just to not be able to get onto the roof anyway.

His phone vibrates against the table. It’s the fourth missed call for the morning, and he just doesn’t have the—patience, or the time, or the energy, except he can’t just—let all his calls go to voicemail, he can’t just— _fuck_ , this is all such a fucking mess.

Armitage lies back down on the floor, stares up at the ceiling. The drafting table is shoved up against the wall from his—moment of weakness the other week, and now that everything is empty, he has nothing but space, and he can lie on the floor in the middle of the room and stare right up at Starkiller, let the weight of his failure sink right into his bones.

It doesn’t matter if he scales it up, down, or sideways. It’s a fucking mess, and it’s a shit project, and it’s not worth any of the blood, sweat, or—or anything that he’s put into the thing, and everything he’s done since he’s moved here has been—has been a waste of his time. He’s sick to death of everything—his past work is shit, his present work is shit, and if one more fucking grad student at this goddamn institution implies that he should just suspend another chunk of metal from a bridge and sail through his thesis, he’s going to shank them with his fucking pocketknife, gut them open and—

His phone rings.

It’s the fifth call.

He answers it. “Armitage Hux.”

“Hey…” Ren says.

The drawn-out nature of the greeting startles Armitage completely. He pulls the phone away to look at the call display, and then puts it back to his ear.

Dead silence.

“Ren?”

“Yeah,” Ren says, stumbling over his words. “Yeah, it’s me. Hi, Hux.”

“The fuck are you doing calling me?”

“—I can call, sometimes.”

“Five fucking times?”

A pause. “Wait, what? This is the first time I’ve called.”

Armitage pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s too early for his contacts to be burning like this. He’s already drained his thermos of tea. His thesis is fucking shit. He doesn’t appreciate Ren’s tone. “I don’t usually answer my phone.”

“Look,” Ren says. He sounds—out of breath, or harried, or—whatever. Armitage doesn’t fucking care what he sounds like.

“I’m busy,” Armitage says.

“This is important,” Ren says. “It’s about the contract.”

Armitage’s mind is a blank. He blinks up at Starkiller. “The what?”

“The contract,” Ren repeats. “It’s just—you know. You signed it, right? The contract for our engagement?”

“Fake,” Armitage says wearily. “The contract for our fake engagement.”

“You signed it?”

“Of course,” Armitage lies. He hasn’t even looked at the fucking thing since Ren handed it to him. He thinks it’s in the closet, underneath the fuzzy robe that he packed because it’s one of the most comfortable things he owns, but he certainly can’t wear it in front of Kylo. Not _now_. If he wears anything, it’ll have to be the pleated black silk robe, the one that’s as cold as fuck, and slides off his shoulder the minute he so much as _thinks_ about moving.

“And you didn’t have any problems with it?”

“I wrote it,” Armitage says.

“I made some modifications—”

“I don’t give a fuck about your modifications,” Armitage snaps. “Are you implying that I’m not taking this seriously? Everything is—engagement this, engagement that, did you sign the contract, did you read the contract, are you doing what you’re supposed to, are you fulfilling your responsibilities? And I fucking am, Ren, I fucking am.” Armitage swallows, the realization coming to him between one breath and the next. “You want out,” he says.

“No,” Ren says on the other end of the line.

“You want out,” Armitage repeats, and his voice goes shrill. “You want out, and you’re trying—you’re trying to pin it on me.”

“That’s not—”

“You can’t fucking pin it on me, you can’t—isn’t this what you wanted? I’ve done what you’ve asked—”

“You have,” Ren says on the other end. “You _have_ , Hux, you have. It’s not—I’m fine with things as they are, Hux, okay? I’m not—I don’t think anything’s wrong.”

Armitage takes a deep breath, and then another. “You don’t?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Ren says. “I just—I thought maybe you hadn’t—but you have, so it’s fine. I was just—I was just insecure. I’m okay now.”

“You’re…”

“I’m okay now,” Ren repeats. “It’s nothing, it was stupid.”

“…oh.”

“I’m coming to campus in an hour,” Ren says. “I’ll stop at Resistance on the way—do you want anything other than a tarine tea?”

“No, thank you,” Armitage says dully.

His eyes are burning.

 

(The knock comes an hour and seventeen minutes later, a sharp decisive tap that isn’t repeated. Armitage counts to thirty, and opens the door, and Ren is standing right there, waiting. He presses a cup of tarine tea into Armitage’s left hand, a small paper bag into Armitage’s right, and then leans forward and kisses him warmly, mouth open and tongue pressing briefly against Armitage’s lips. Armitage’s chest clenches, hard, and he stands there, blinking, as Ren pulls back. Ren’s neck is flushed and he’s unable—or unwilling—to make eye contact. Ten minutes later, after Ren is long gone, Armitage’s phone buzzes. He steps back into his studio, shuts the door behind him, and sets the food and tea down on his table, pulls out his phone. It’s a text from Ren. _Looking forward to seeing you tonight._

(There are chocolate chip cookies in the bag. They’re delicious.)

 

“Bad day?” Ren asks. It comes out muffled because he has a paintbrush between his teeth, and paint on his fingers. He looks driven and focused, unlike his usual absent poking around, and Armitage resents him for it. Of course Ren looks like he knows what he’s doing, he’s a fucking undergrad. He could spit paint onto the canvas and still pass it off as something. Standards are higher for graduate students, but Armitage bites that back, because…because he can. He’s an adult. He doesn’t need to say every fucking thing that crosses his mind, no matter how much he—

“Is that my cat?” Armitage asks.

Ren looks down at the pocket of his bunnyhug, which Millicent has somehow managed to wedge herself into. Her front end is hanging out one side of the pocket, her back end is hanging out the other side, and she’s purring loudly enough that Armitage can hear her from where he’s standing in the kitchen. “Uh,” Ren says—but he doesn’t have a chance to say much more, because at the sound of his voice, Millie opens her eyes and starts attempting to scramble out of Ren’s bunnyhug.

“Ow, _fuck_ ,” Ren curses, sticking his hands into the pocket and trying to shove Millie out the other side. “Out, out, out!”

Millie lands on the floor with a resounding _thud_ , and then immediately trots off to the walk-in closet without another glance.

Armitage watches her go. “How much damage did you take?” he asks Ren.

“Oh,” Ren says, looking down at his hands, and then pulling up his bunnyhug to look down at his stomach.

Armitage’s mouth goes dry. The cardio is definitely doing something—Ren doesn’t have visible abs yet, but he has the suggestion that they might show up at some point, and Armitage wants to put his hand there, splay it right over Ren’s bellybutton and shove it down his pants, curl it around Ren’s cock and see if it’s actually as big as what his morning wood suggests, or whether it’s just a trick of the comforter and the way Ren piles the sheets around himself. Summer can’t come soon enough—with the size of the windows in this place, and the way they face the sunrise, it should heat up in here enough that Ren will have to forgo the comforter at some point, and then Armitage will know for certain—

“Nah, just a couple of scratches,” Ren says.

Who the fuck even wears a bunnyhug without a shirt underneath?

“Are you okay?”

Armitage looks away. “I’m always okay,” he mutters.

“You sounded like shit when I called,” Ren insists.

“You threw me off,” Armitage says, scowling. “Go back to your—whatever the fuck you’re doing.”

Ren wrinkles his nose, but heads back to his easel.

Armitage takes his shoes off, gets two beers out of the fridge. He knocks the caps off and tosses them in the trash, and takes both beers back to the bed. He sits down on his side, balances one of the beers against his hip, and is lifting the other to his mouth when Millie darts out of the closet and launches herself at him. Twenty pounds of cat hits him in the chest and he goes over backward. The beer he’s holding spills over his face, bottle clacking against his teeth, and he can feel a rush of cold wetness at his hip where the second beer has spilled all over the bed.

“Millie, you fucking _shite_ ,” he snarls. The remainder of his beer pours out over his face and through his hair, and by the time he blindly reaches out and manages to get the other one upright, it’s almost empty. “ _Fuck_.” His comforter is soaked, and the sheets are probably soaked underneath it, and he’s got beer in his hair and on his face, and he’s going to fail his fucking thesis and he still hasn’t answered any phone calls other than Ren’s and Ren’s was just to berate him for fucking shit up all the time, only now he can’t stop thinking about Ren’s bare stomach, and that slight trace of hair disappearing into Ren’s sweats and—

“Do you want me to wipe your face?”

Armitage opens his eyes, winces and wipes his sleeve across his face. “What?”

Ren shrugs. He’s looming at the side of the bed, holding a washcloth in his hand. “You’re covered in beer. It’ll dry all gross.”

Armitage pushes himself back up to a sitting position, moving his hand immediately off his wet sheets. (Millie, for her part, has disappeared somewhere into Ren’s bookshelves, like the troublemaker she is.) “I suppose you’ve spent some time with beer drying on your face.”

“I lived in res for the first year of university,” Ren says, deadpan. He shifts his weight a little, cups his other hand under the washcloth to catch a drop of water before it falls. “I’ve had beer drying pretty much everywhere. Can I?”

“Go ahead,” Armitage sighs. He shuts his eyes, and suppresses a shiver of pleasure when Ren touches the cloth to his face. The cloth is warm, and Ren is gentle and tender, applying just enough pressure to wipe the beer off, and not touching Armitage in any other way even though Armitage would definitely, definitely let him. “Why get an apartment away from campus if you were in res?”

Ren chuckles, runs the cloth gently around Armitage’s ear before taking it away. “Well, uh, this is the second year of my third year.”

Armitage opens one eye. “You said that was because of electives.”

“Those too,” Ren agrees. “Also, there’s nothing I can do about your hair with a washcloth.”

_Wash it for me_ , Armitage nearly says, but he bites his lip instead. “Whatever,” he mutters once the urge to say something stupid has passed. That’s two beers wasted because of his cat, who is nowhere to be seen, and he should be—figuring out what he’s going to do with his sheets, or what he’s going to do with his thesis, or when he’s going to return his calls—except all he’s thinking about is Ren, even though he hates himself for it. Sitting down like this while Ren is standing, he’s exactly at the right height to just reach out and put his hands on Ren’s hips, yank his pelvis closer, open his mouth and—

Ren shrugs, pads away into the kitchen, starts rummaging through the cupboards. Armitage sighs, shuffles a little further up the bed, and lies down in a dry spot.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s going to do about his thesis. The entire thing is so fucked up he doesn’t even know where to start. He’s running out of time to burn the whole thing down and start over from ashes—and even if he makes the call to scrap everything, he has nothing to replace it with. He closes his eyes again. Fuck, he hates his life.

The entire bed shifts as Ren lies down beside Armitage, his back against both sets of pillows. “Fresh beer?”

Armitage looks over. Ren has a beer resting against his stomach, and is holding a second one out to Armitage.

“Yes,” Armitage says. He makes a half-assed effort to sit up so he can drink it.

“Straw?”

“Are you serious?” Armitage cranes his head back to look at Ren—and Ren is apparently very serious about it, because there’s now an extra-long bendy straw sticking out of his own beer, enabling Ren to drink without doing much more than lifting his head slightly off the bed. “Fine,” Armitage says. “Hand it over.”

Ren halfway sits up, yanks another straw from his back pocket, and gives it to Armitage before settling back down, this time shifting a little closer.

It’s kind of nice. The beer.

“Okay, this is pretty good,” Armitage says begrudgingly. “I suppose that’s something else you picked up while you were in res?”

“Nope,” Ren says. “I took a gap year because I was miserably depressed, and that was how I hydrated.”

“You lay in bed and drank beer through a straw for a year?”

“No, I lay in bed and drank water through a straw for a year because I wasn’t allowed alcohol.”

“Wasn’t _allowed_?”

“Heavily medicated,” Ren says blithely, like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s normal to just—give up intimate parts of yourself, just like that, to a piece of shit like Armitage who will use that information to his advantage if he needs to.

(Ren’s STI results were all clear, Armitage remembers, and it twists his gut to think of that piece of paper, nestled into the contract like it belongs there. He doesn’t know how much more of Ren’s medical history he would find if he looked. He doesn’t care.)

“I’m sorry I asked,” Armitage says. He takes another sip of his beer through the straw.

“I’m not,” Ren says. “I don’t mind sharing.”

“It’s your medical history,” Armitage says, mouth twisting.

“You’ll be my husband,” Ren says. “Legally. What if I’m in an accident?”

“Don’t be,” Armitage says bluntly. “I’m not a good caregiver.”

“You have a cat.”

“My cat doesn’t need shit from me,” Armitage says. “Also, she’s walking across your palette.”

“Fuck,” Ren says, jolting up out of bed and setting his beer on the floor before rushing over to his easel. “Come here, kitty.” He picks her up under her armpits, scowls at the paint footprints left on the floor. “Do you think I can just, like, wipe her paws with a cloth? Should I give her a bath?”

“Not if you value your life,” Armitage says. “Use the cloth, but not the same one you used on my face, it has beer on it.”

“Right,” Ren says, still holding Millie out at arm’s length. “Come on, then, Millie. Let’s go clean your paws.”

 

By the time Ren gets Millie all cleaned up, and then cleans up the mess she made of his paints, they’re both through another beer. Well, Ren is through another beer. Armitage is through two, and is working on a third, because he’s not going to lift a fucking finger to help Ren—how will Ren learn if he just gets babied through everything? So he watches Ren struggle with Millicent, and he watches Ren scrubbing wet paint off the floor, and he watches Ren painstakingly clean off his palette, and then frown at his paints like he’s suddenly realized he’s missing some.

(They’ve gone directly to the trash. Armitage will consider buying him new ones when Ren considers learning how to fucking paint.)

Ren lies back down on his side of the bed, head on his pillow, staring up at the ceiling.

“How _was_ the art going?” Armitage says, before immediately realizing that expressing an interest in something that Ren is doing is a fucking mistake, because that’ll be the next three hours of his life, just listening to Ren talk about—things that Armitage doesn’t care about in that odd cadence he has when he really gets into something, three hours of Armitage trying to pretend he’s unaffected by how fucking _hot_ Ren sounds when he talks.

Ren shrugs. “Nothing to report.”

(Armitage is vaguely disappointed and not quite sure why.)

“How about yours?”

Armitage swallows his beer. “Pardon?”

“Your thesis,” Ren says. “Did you want to—did you want to talk about it? I’m a really good listener.”

Armitage opens his mouth to tell Ren no—and then finds, somehow, that he actually does want to talk about it. Just a little. “It’s shit,” he says.

Ren makes a quiet encouraging sound.

Armitage takes a deep breath, and starts talking.

 

“—and so I’m basically fucked. I’m burnt out on everything I was doing—I can’t escalate it because there’s nowhere to escalate it _to_ , I can’t go any bigger than I’ve gone because the cops are already fucking watching me because of that—that last thing, and all the detours they had to put in place to get it down, and I’m just—I’ve got all these fucking _expectations_ on me, because I’m _Armitage Hux_ , and I’m supposed to be— _producing_ something, something brilliant, something that justifies my presence in a program that I didn’t even—I had to—it was a mess—write a bunch of letters and put together video footage of my previous work and I hadn’t—taken art theory classes, and I couldn’t—in class, everybody was talking about these— _theories_ and semiosis, and diachronic analysis, and applied mediology, and I just didn’t know—so I couldn’t—I had to do night classes to try and catch up, build up my basics. I actually only have, like—half a fucking undergraduate degree, and they don’t—they don’t give a shit that I’m a fucking engineer and I was in these—hundred level classes with these—eighteen year olds, and I’m just—this is supposed to be the pinnacle of everything, and I’m just—I’m fucking _failing_ , and I don’t—I’ve never—”

“Hey, hey,” Ren says. “Hey, hey.”

Armitage swipes his hand over his face. Takes his straw out of his beer and upends the last of the bottle into his mouth, but that’s it, there’s nothing there because it’s empty and probably has been for a while, based on how long he’s been talking, how dry his throat is. (He feels suddenly, intensely, sick at the thought of how much of himself he’s just given up to Ren.) “I’ll go get us more beer,” he says. Anything to avoid thinking about all the shit he’s just said—and the part where he’s somehow squished up higher onto the bed, close enough that he can feel the heat of Ren’s thighs against the top of his head—

Kitchen.

Armitage washes his hands, splashes cold water on his face. Brings back four beers instead of two, because it’s silly to make Ren get up for the next round when Armitage could just bring the next two rounds at the same time, and maybe if he gets Ren trashed, Ren will forget about all the fucking—shit that Armitage has just told him, maybe Ren will just forget about—everything with this conversation, because Armitage would honestly like a do-over of the entire day, starting first thing in the morning with all the fucking calls he was screening, because if he’d just fucking picked up—

Armitage sits heavily on the bed, because sitting is going to prevent him from doing something stupid and predatory, like escalating things that Ren doesn’t want escalated. It’s for the best that Ren doesn’t want anything more than awkward makeouts, because if Ren had actually taken any of Armitage’s hints at any point, they would be in a rough situation, they would be somewhere that would be difficult to de-escalate from. Armitage is just going to—stop wearing his ring. Sometime. Not today. Like, next week. He’ll stop wearing his ring next week, before it’s sunny enough outside that he ends up with a ring tan from incidental sun exposure.

“Here,” he says, uncapping one of the beers and passing it back to Ren. He has no idea how long he’s been sitting on the edge of the bed without saying anything. He’s fucking drunk, and getting drunker.

“Thanks,” Ren says, and the fucking arse actually turns over onto to his side, brings his legs up a little so that he’s curled over, surrounding Armitage with his body, but somehow not touching him at all.

“I’ll get through it,” Armitage says after taking a long swallow of his beer. “I always do.”

“I know,” Ren says. “You’re tough.”

Armitage snorts inelegantly. (He’ll regret that in the morning too.)

“You are!”

(Ren gets enthusiastic when he drinks. He’s like a fucking puppy—either yapping away at something, or just staring intensely without saying anything.)

Armitage takes another drink of his beer, slouches backward until the small of his back is just touching Ren’s knees.

Ren doesn’t move away.

 

“You won’t believe this,” Armitage says. His words slur. A little. Not much. “I just. Today.”

“Yeah?”

“Lay on the floor. In my studio.”

“No way,” Ren says.

“Three hours,” Armitage says. He hiccups, covers his mouth after. “Just, like. On the floor.”

Ren’s chuckle rumbles through his chest.

(Armitage knows because that’s where the hand holding his beer is resting. It’s very appropriate. The small of his back is against Ren’s knee, and the back of his hand is against Ren’s chest, and there are no other points of contact. It’s very. Platonic.)

“Three hours,” Armitage repeats. He gestures up at the ceiling. “Three.”

“Have you considered,” Ren starts, and then falls silent.

“No, what?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Spit it out,” Armitage says, and his accent has definitely slipped all to fucking hell. He’s too drunk to correct it.

(It’s not like Ren will remember tomorrow.)

Ren looks at him, all doe eyes and serious face. “What if your thesis is actually good?”

Armitage laughs so hard there are tears in his eyes.

“Shit, fuck,” Ren says, and his knees tighten up around Armitage’s hips as he curls in, leans forward. “Hux, I was serious, are you okay?”

Armitage takes a shaky breath and dissolves into giggles again. “Oh my god,” he murmurs when he finally gets control of himself. “ _What if your thesis is actually good_ , are you fucking kidding me, Ren?”

“It was just a question,” Ren says, a little sulky, and Armitage wants to kiss the pout right off his face.

(He does, and Ren’s lips are soft and taste like beer, and Ren opens his mouth into it immediately, and _fuck_.)

“What if my thesis is actually good,” Armitage repeats, leaning back against Ren’s knees.

“Oh my god,” Ren says, “you’re fucking impossible. You know that, right? You’re fucking impossible.” He reaches out with his hand, touches Armitage’s cheek, strokes his thumb along Armitage’s jaw.

Armitage wipes his eyes again, shifts around a little bit until he’s comfortable. (Ren’s knees are so _bony_.) “Told you that I was impossible _and_ difficult—difficult to live with.”

“I don’t know,” Ren says, and his voice has gone—softer. Lower. “This isn’t so bad.”

Because of course Armitage has relaxed right back onto Ren’s thighs, of course Ren has curled into him so that he’s surrounding Armitage’s body with his own.

Of course the entire thing is kind of nice.

(Of course Armitage doesn’t deserve it and somehow gets it anyway.)

Millie yowls from beside them, jumps up onto the bed.

“It’s not bedtime yet,” Armitage scolds.

“Let her stay,” Ren says. “I’m comfy, you’re comfy, she might as well be comfy too.”

And since Millie’s idea of comfort is sprawling out, tail flicking up into Ren’s face—well, that’s Ren’s fault for inviting her up here, and Armitage is taking no responsibility for Ren’s bad decisions.

 

“I’m not—I’m not taking any responsibility—for your bad decisions, Ren,” Armitage says, a couple hours and more than a couple beers later.

Ren’s mouth tastes like beer and the stale salt and vinegar chips that he’d rescued from some obscure corner of the pantry. “My decisions are great,” he says, and leans in close to kiss Armitage—sloppy, wet, heavy—again. “I’m the best decision-maker.”

“Speaking of decisions.”

“Hmm?”

“Here, try this,” Armitage says, and he leans in close, waits until Ren’s lips are on his, and then nips lightly at Ren’s lower lip. Just enough teeth to make Ren gasp, a little. Not enough to draw blood.

“Oh,” Ren says, his voice gone dark. “Do that again?”

“Yeah, here,” Armitage says, leaning in. “You just, like—lightly, and hardly any teeth. And you just want to—yeah, and then go back to kissing, and then—yeah.”

“Okay, let me—”

“Yes, Ren. _Yes._ ”

Ren’s so gentle that it’s just—oh, it’s obscene. He’s gentle and careful and he’s following Armitage’s instructions precisely, and whoever Ren ends up with after this is over—well, Armitage can feel good about his role in that, because this is going to be—

“Shit, did I hurt you?”

God fucking _damn_ Ren’s teeth on his lips are doing him in. He would let Ren _wreck_ him. “Mmm?”

“You moaned,” Ren says. “I didn’t—hurt you, did I?”

“For somebody that’s really bright, you’re awfully dull sometimes,” Armitage says. He curls in closer to Ren’s chest.

“You think I’m bright?”

Armitage rolls his eyes. “Would you like to kiss me again?”

“Fuck yes,” Ren says.

“See if you can make me moan again, alright?”

And then everything is Ren’s—lips, and his tongue, and his teeth, and oh, fuck, he feels _amazing_.

 

“ _Jaysus_ ,” Armitage curses. “You’ve got fucking soap in my eyes, you arse.”

“I told you—keep your hands up. By your eyes,” Ren says, with the patient slowness of the very drunk. “I have to rinse this all out, or your hair’ll be—’s going to be—fucked, right fucked, in the morning.”

“’s fucked _now_.”

“I’m drunk,” Ren says, as though it isn’t patently obvious, of course he’s fucking drunk, of course he is. They both are. They’re both fucking drunk.

(Armitage thinks, vaguely, that they may even be out of beer, because the last thing Ren brought him was _water_ , of all the fucking things.)

“Of course the water’s going everywhere,” Ren says. “Stop _moving_.”

“ _Jaysus_ ,” Armitage repeats, and he squeezes his eyes shut and jams the heels of his hands into his sockets. As though that’ll prevent him from getting any wetter than he already is.

“It’s almost rinsed out,” Ren says. “Just—like—okay, there. Let me get you a towel.”

Armitage waits for the offered towel, scrubs off his hair and his face as he unsteadily gets back up to a standing position. “Your sink is too fucking small. I don’t know why I let you convince me that you were any good at hair-washing.”

“I’m drunk,” Ren repeats. “And I’m super good at hair-washing, but I’m used to doing it on somebody, like, half your size. So don’t—don’t blame me. You’re fucking _tall_ , you know?”

“I’m not _blaming_ you,” Armitage says, pulling the towel off his head and peering at himself in the mirror. His right eye looks—yeah, red-rimmed and bloodshot from the fucking soap, but his left is okay, and he doesn’t smell like stale beer anymore, so really—so really, this wasn’t. This wasn’t that bad. Ren’s kind of. Kind of okay. This isn’t the worst night Armitage has ever had. There’s definitely soap in his eye—but it’s not the worst.

“Thanks,” Ren says petulantly. “And it’s Kylo.”

“Oh shit,” Armitage says. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“It’s fine,” Ren—Kylo—says. “I just—could you call me Kylo? Please.”

“Okay,” Armitage says.

Might as well just—just keep _giving_ Ren—giving _Kylo_ —things at this point.

Might as well give him everything.

Might as well—

 

“I _hate_ water,” Armitage gripes. He swirls his straw in his glass.

“Hey, what about some lemon—” Kylo starts—and then he lurches up from the floor, stumbles on his way up, and ends up upending his easel. He lands, sprawling, on his back, his open beer spilling over his fallen canvas.

“Uh,” Armitage says.

Kylo gets off the floor, picks up the slightly warped canvas and shakes it. Droplets of beer arc off the edge of the canvas. “Think this improves it,” he says. “It was a piece of shit.”

“Your work,” Armitage breathes.

Kylo peers at him. “You know I just, like. Trash my work? All the time?”

Armitage blinks at him.

“Never mind,” Kylo says. “’M drunk. Bedtime.” He yanks off his bunnyhug, exposing a chest that is definitely skinnier than Armitage had imagined, and completely not at all Armitage’s type, except somehow Armitage is still—hard.

And into it.

He’s very into it.

(He would get very, _very_ into Kylo.)

Fuck, Armitage is going to be sorry when Kylo puts a shirt on over that, because it’s just. It’s nice to just. Look at him. When he’s.

(Like, _fingers_ deep into Kylo. _Dick_ deep into Kylo. _Tongue_ deep into Kylo.)

Kylo wears a shirt every night, and it’s a shame, it’s a fucking shame—but then, Armitage does too, because Ren used to be—well, Ren was never straight, he just—it was just that Armitage had—the wrong idea, and everything, when—

—fucking hell, Armitage is drunk.

Kylo staggers to his feet.

Armitage watches him. _Fuck_ , he’s tall.

Kylo sticks his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats, and shoves them down his legs.

Armitage is way too drunk to look away, and holy hell, all the running has done good things for Kylo’s legs. Fuck. _Fuck_. His legs are so fucking _long_ , and they’re so— _bare_ and. And.

(His boxers are terrible—navy blue, ill-fitting, the hem of them ragged. There’s a hole high on Kylo’s left thigh, but not in the right spot for Armitage to be able to see anything good.)

Kylo doesn’t seem to notice that Armitage is watching, just ambles to the bed, and then burrows under his set of covers from the bottom up, his messed-up hair emerging from the top like some sort of—mole, or something, and Armitage is still—watching. Watching him, because he can’t—

( _look away_ )

“You coming to bed?” Kylo asks, words slurring slightly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Armitage says, even as he considers just lying down where he is and sleeping on the floor. He should really brush his teeth, though. His mouth will taste like hell in the morning if he—if he doesn’t. “I’m going to brush my teeth,” he announces.

It takes him—whew, it takes him longer than it should to get up, and when he gets to the bathroom, he has to squint for a minute before he figures out which toothbrush is his. He brushes his teeth. Washes his face. Stares at himself in the mirror, at his irritated eye where Kylo had gotten shampoo into it. At his hair, free of product and hanging loose around his face.

He’s blushing. He’s fucking _blushing_.

“Get it together, Hux,” he whispers to himself. He slaps himself lightly across the cheek, and it doesn’t help, just reddens his cheek enough that he feels like he needs to slap the other cheek as well, just so that he looks—symmetrical, just so—

“You okay?” Kylo calls from the bed.

“Fuck,” Armitage murmurs. “Yeah,” he calls back. “’M fine.”

He washes his face again. Cold water this time.

When he feels like he’s recovered—when he figures Kylo has probably passed out—he flicks off the light, staggers through the closet out back to the bed. Lifts up his side of the covers and—

Stale beer wafts out at him.

“Fuck,” he groans.

“Wha?”

“Spilled those beers earlier. Forgot.”

Kylo mutters something unintelligible.

“Sheets a fucking mess,” Armitage says. “After you…washed my hair and everything.”

“Get rid of them,” Kylo says.

“What?”

“Sheets on the floor,” Kylo says.

Armitage blinks.

“Use mine.”

Armitage looks over at Kylo. Kylo is rolled partway onto his back, eyes half-closed. His arm is extended, and he’s holding—he’s holding his sheets up, making a space that Armitage can just climb right into.

Armitage looks at the comforter and the sheets that he’s holding in his hand. They absolutely _reek_ of beer.

He yanks his sheets off the bed and tosses them onto the floor.

Climbs into Kylo’s sheets, settles against Kylo’s chest.

Kylo is—warm, and smells faintly of shampoo and beer. He’s a little wider across the chest than Armitage is, and it’s—comforting, somehow.

“This is nice,” he says, quietly.

Kylo is already asleep, breathing heavily against the back of Armitage’s neck.

“This is nice,” Armitage repeats, and then he closes his eyes.

He wants Kylo so badly, he wants—

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE SECOND SET OF SHEETS ARE ON THE FLOOR. I REPEAT, THE SECOND SET OF SHEETS ARE ON THE FLOOR.
> 
> Fucking /finally/, boys. Gosh.
> 
> There's a blog entry for this post as well! It's [over here on my blog](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/04/27/dtd-chapter-eight-breakdown/), and it talks about retconning one's own narrative, timeskips (haha, just joking, I think I've already blogged about those four million times), and discusses why the drinking scene went down the way it did.


	9. a bird in the hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo wakes up slowly, and realizes quickly that the situation has gotten rather, er, _hard_ overnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my thanks to deadsy for beta-reading (and for yelling at me when I took all her favourite parts out--they're back in now!) and valda for copyediting (and only laughing at Canadian spelling a little).
> 
> Buckle your seatbelts--here we go!

Kylo wakes up slowly, blinking into the sunlight. He’d—they’d—forgotten to pull the drapes at the end of the night, so there’s sunlight streaming across the bed. He’s awake much earlier than he’d intended to be, hangover throbbing behind his eyes, dick throbbing between his legs and—

—oh fuck, and—

—and Hux cradled in his arms.

Hux’s back is pulled up against Kylo’s chest, and Kylo’s arms are wrapped around him. There’s no—there’s no security layer of blankets between them, nothing to keep them separated.

_sheets on the floor_

Hux’s t-shirt is against Kylo’s skin, rucked up a little at the back, and Kylo’s—

—oh, fuck, and—and—

—Kylo’s dick is hard, slotted against Hux’s ass.

_FUCK_

This is the end of it. Kylo’s heart pounds in his ears. This is the end of everything, this is—oh, fuck, they didn’t discuss this in advance, this is not—this is not something they talked about. Kylo’s hard cock is pressed right against Hux’s ass, and Kylo definitely did not think this through the previous night when he’d invited Hux into his side of the sheets, he just wanted—wanted to be closer to Hux, except now Hux is pressed right up against him. Kylo bites the inside of his cheek, looks down. Hux is wearing pyjama pants, and the waistband of whatever he’s got underneath is riding up a little bit, just barely visible against—against the jut of Kylo’s cock, and—

—and all Kylo is wearing is boxers. Kylo is wearing boxers and his cock is hard and aching and there’s no way Hux’s pyjama pants are thick enough to disguise it and they’re—they’re _touching_ right now and—

Fuck, oh, fuck.

He’ll—fuck.

Okay.

Kylo is gonna—he’s gonna roll over onto his back. Keep his breathing nice and steady. Roll onto his back, and fake yawning, see if he can tug his arm out from underneath Hux. Maybe if Kylo curls up facing the other direction, he can wait until his dick calms the fuck down, and just—escape to the bathroom and jerk off, run the shower to cover for it.

(Like he normally has a shower at the crack of dawn on a Saturday.)

Okay.

Kylo yawns, stretches his left arm up, instantly missing the steady rise and fall of Hux’s chest underneath. His other arm is still buried under Hux, so he’s just going to—roll over onto his back, slide his arm out, it’ll be fine—it’ll be just fine, everything will be—

Kylo rolls over onto his back, and Hux—and Hux _rolls over with him_ , settling against Kylo’s chest, exhaling gently onto Kylo’s ribs. Hux’s hand snakes onto Kylo’s body, moving slowly over his stomach, down to the waistband of his boxers—

“Fuck,” Kylo says softly, without meaning to.

Hux chuckles against his ribs.

Kylo freezes.

Breathes.

_one and out two and out three and out four_

He looks down, and Hux—

—Hux’s pale eyes are open, and he’s looking up at Kylo. He looks entirely too alert for this early in the morning, and not at all like someone who is—hungover, or even like someone who was sleeping.

“Uh,” Kylo says.

“Good morning,” Hux says lightly.

“Hi,” Kylo says hoarsely. He blinks.

Hux doesn’t stop looking at him.

“How’s your hangover?” Kylo asks.

The corner of Hux’s mouth twitches. “You woke me up,” he says, in that same light voice, the same hint of a lilt to his speech that Kylo remembers from the night before.

“Shit,” Kylo says. “Sometimes I snore after I drink, I—”

“No,” Hux says, and his fingertips play at the waistband of Kylo’s boxers again. “With this.”

“With …”

“It’s a little difficult to miss,” Hux says. His mouth twitches again, and he’s—

—he’s _smiling_ , an actual legitimate smile, and it absolutely takes Kylo’s breath away.

“Shit,” Kylo repeats. “Fuck. I.” He can’t think. He can hardly talk. He should apologize, he should—

“I didn’t mind,” Hux says. “I…don’t mind.”

Kylo’s brain grinds to a halt.

“Have you ever…had a handjob?” Hux asks. His tongue darts out, wets his lips. “Before. Have you…”

Kylo shakes his head, tight-lipped. If he opens his mouth, he’s just going to say something fucking stupid, like _I love you_ or _marry me for real_ or _holy shit, Hux._

“Do you want one?” Hux’s eyes haven’t left Kylo’s, and he looks—he looks fucking _serious_ about it.

“Yes,” Kylo says, finally, and his voice fucking cracks as he says it. “Yes—Hux—can you—Hux, please.”

“Kiss me,” Hux says, and he tips his face up toward Kylo’s.

Kylo turns onto his side so he’s facing Hux, leans in and presses his lips up against Hux’s. He licks out gently with his tongue, and Hux’s tongue is—Hux’s tongue is right there, and Hux’s lips are so soft. Kylo is consumed immediately, arousal burning through him like a wildfire. He presses his mouth harder against Hux’s and kisses him deeply, mouth open the way Hux likes it, and then he starts kissing down the side of Hux’s face, into his neck—

“Oh, that’s good,” Hux breathes softly against his cheek. “You have such nice lips,” he continues, pressing his face up closer to Kylo’s, and nipping gently at his earlobe. “Nice lips and an amazing tongue, a beautiful face and these ears, I lo—so lovely.”

Hux drags his tongue along the shell of Kylo’s ear, and Kylo shudders, arousal zapping through him like an electrical shock. It’s the same thing Hux had done that first time, and then the second, when Kylo hadn’t been able to hold himself together at all, had only managed to burrow his face into Hux’s shoulder and come in his pants—this is like that, but way more intense because he’s conscious of his dick, when it was pressed right up against Hux and it was _amazing_ , and now _he_ knows that _Hux_ knows and it’s a lot. They’re just so _close_ right now, lying down in bed like this, and Hux’s left hand is curled into a fist against Kylo’s sternum, the fingers of his other hand gently tapping at Kylo’s bare hip, right above his boxers, and Kylo feels as though he’s on fire, being consumed—

“I need a minute,” he mutters into Hux’s shoulder.

Hux’s fingers still. “Do you want to stop, Kylo?”

“I don’t—I don’t want to stop.”

Hux pulls back a moment, considers. He’s unfairly beautiful in the morning light, even as he squints his eyes a bit against the sun. There is a light dusting of freckles across his nose that Kylo somehow hasn’t noticed before now, and Hux’s hair is still mussed up from the impromptu wash the previous night, and there’s a touch of redness—

“Shit,” Kylo says softly, reaching out with his thumb and running it across Hux’s cheekbone. “Your eye’s still kinda red.”

Hux snorts softly. “Ah, yes. The hair-washing. I have no regrets about that.” He props himself up on his elbow and looks down at Kylo. “Do you?”

Kylo shakes his head. “No—no regrets. About anything.” He swallows, then steels himself. “Were you serious?”

“About?”

Kylo shuts his eyes. “Don’t make me say it.” He opens them again, because he can’t help it—he wants to look at Hux, he wants to look at Hux _so badly._

Hux looks directly at him. “Oh, about the handjob? _Very_ serious, Kylo.”

Kylo’s cheeks instantly heat up. “You want to—?”

“Definitely,” Hux says. He touches his thumb to his engagement ring, stark against his pale finger. “Would you like me to?”

“Yes,” Kylo says immediately. “Only—”

“You need some time?” Hux asks.

Kylo flushes, looks away. “I just … you’re so ….” He doesn’t even know how to finish the sentence—Hux is so fucking hot, and he’s wearing his mostly-transparent _Arkanis U_ t-shirt which means that Kylo can see his nipples right through it, especially since Hux has let the comforter slide down, and there’s no—graceful or elegant way for Kylo to put that into words. There’s no way for him to coherently say _I can’t believe you want to touch my dick_ or _I always wanted my first to be you_ or _please I’ll die waiting._

“Can I see you?” Hux asks.

“What! Like—like—”

“Fine,” Hux says. “Just to the waist.”

Kylo looks at him. “I—guess, if you want. Yeah. If you want, that would be—nice.” He feels dizzy, a little, with the thought of Hux looking at him, Hux _seeing_ him.

“Oh, I want,” Hux says. He reaches over, rests his right hand on the comforter on top of Kylo’s shoulder. “Are you ready?”

Kylo keeps looking at him, at the way his mouth is quirking just slightly at the corner, the shadow of red stubble that’s just faintly visible on his cheeks. He’s so ethereal in the morning light, and Kylo doesn’t feel—entirely anchored in his body anymore. His hangover has retreated, and all he can feel is the sheer _arousal_ of being so close to Hux—of being _hard_ and so close to Hux, of having Hux be _aware_ of it, and _accepting_ of it, and—

“I’m doing it slowly,” Hux continues. “If you don’t like it, or if you’re too nervous, I can stop, and I won’t go any further. We can just make out if you want to. Okay, Kylo?”

Kylo hesitates. Nods. Gets his hands ready just in case, just in case he needs to do something about it, just in case this is—awful somehow, and Hux—and Hux laughs or smirks or—

“You’re beautiful,” Hux breathes.

Kylo’s heart stops. “I—what? You can’t see…”

“You’d be surprised,” Hux says gently, “what I can see, Kylo.” He reaches up, tugs at the blanket a little, peeling it away from Kylo’s shoulders. He looks up at Kylo, and Kylo…nods.

Hux pulls the blanket down a little further, exposing Kylo’s arms.

Kylo shivers a little—tells himself it’s because he’s out from under the warmth of the blankets but he thinks it’s actually from the way Hux is looking at him, sweeping his eyes back and forth across Kylo’s body. Hux looks—interested. Interested in _Kylo,_ interested in seeing Kylo’s skin, interested in …

“What do you do at the gym?” Hux murmurs. He’s moved his hand from the blanket, is hovering his fingers just over Kylo’s ribs without making contact.

“Cardio, mostly,” Kylo says.

Hux doesn’t seem to be—moving the blanket anymore, so Kylo moves it by himself, shoves it down to his waist, and feels—warm, inside, when Hux’s eyes move almost immediately, drift downward to Kylo’s bare stomach. He wants Hux’s hands on him. He wants Hux’s hands on him so _badly_.

“I’m okay for touching again,” Kylo says softly. “If you still—if you still want to.”

Hux shuts his eyes for a moment, visibly swallows, throat moving. “Where do you want me to touch you?” His voice is rough.

Kylo’s imagination explodes, images flashing before his eyes—Hux kissing him, Hux’s hands on Kylo’s shoulders, Hux’s hands in Kylo’s pants and Hux’s tongue in his mouth and …

“I don’t know,” Kylo says. “I don’t—I don’t know.” _Everywhere_ is a lie—he’s not ready for _everywhere_ , or he doesn’t think that he is, or he doesn’t know what that entails—but, oh, there’s so much _space_ between the two of them right now, and it’s a yawning chasm between them that Kylo wants to bridge with…with something.

Hux smiles, then, his mouth looser than Kylo has ever seen it. “Sounds like a game,” he says. He reaches out with his right hand, touches Kylo’s neck, his fingers resting briefly on Kylo’s pulse, thumb stroking across the front of Kylo’s throat. “Do you prefer being touched here?” He splays his other hand across Kylo’s chest, just above his left nipple. “Or here?”

“Both,” Kylo says. “I like the—the thing you’re doing with your thumb. On my neck.”

“Okay,” Hux breathes. “And what about—here, if I put both hands on your chest?” He moves his hands down a little so they’re both touching Kylo’s chest, palms hovering just above Kylo’s nipples.

“It’s nice.”

Hux lowers his palms, presses them against Kylo’s nipples. “And now?”

“Better,” Kylo says, and it’s so much better, because he can feel the entirety of Hux’s hand pressed against him, can feel the tips of Hux’s fingers scratching gently on his chest, and if he arches his back, just a little, he can get more pressure against his nipples.

“Mmmm,” Hux says, and the corner of his mouth twitches before he suddenly moves his hand and—

“Ouch!”

Hux grins at him wickedly.

“I’ll pinch _your_ nipple,” Kylo threatens. His own still stings a bit.

“Firstly,” Hux says primly, “I’m wearing a shirt. Secondly, this isn’t about me, this is about you, and touching me is completely irrelevant.”

Kylo frowns. “I don’t think—”

“And lastly,” Hux continues, still grinning, “I feel like there may be a few other places you might want me to touch you, yeah?”

Kylo’s breath hitches. “Yeah,” he says, thoughts of touching Hux going completely out the window again at the thought of Hux touching _him_.

“Like?”

“Don’t make me say it,” Kylo says.

“…like?”

Kylo sighs. “My chest?”

Hux’s hands are cool on Kylo’s bare skin, and Kylo’s heart feels like it’s trying to pound right out of his chest.

“My stomach?”

Hux drags his hands down onto Kylo’s stomach, thumbs running down toward his bellybutton, and fingers spread.

Kylo swallows. “Lower?” He tells himself that he’ll be satisfied with his hips, he’ll be satisfied with Hux’s hands on his hips, and maybe some more kissing and—

Hux slides his fingers gently under the waistband of Kylo’s underwear, and just rests them there for a moment. “You’re very warm,” he says. “No wonder you didn’t freeze to death without pyjamas last night.”

“Oh,” Kylo says. “I, uh. I always sleep like this.” It’s a lie, of course—before Hux, he slept sprawled out across the bed on top of the covers, completely naked, and he’s—too nervous right now to confide that information in Hux, because he’s not sure how normal that is—whether Hux will think it’s attractive or just childish. “Do you always sleep fully dressed?”

“Yes,” Hux says. “I get cold.” He drags his fingers so that they’re a little more centralized, brushes the sparse trail of hair on Kylo’s lower stomach with the backs of his fingers. “This is nice,” he says. “I like it.”

“Can you,” Kylo starts. And then he stops, swallows, tries to get his words in the right order before they leave his mouth. “Can you come back closer again? It’s just—you’re all the way over there, and I want—to kiss you?”

“Oh,” Hux says, and he takes his hands away from Kylo’s stomach. “Sorry, that was—that was a little clinical, wasn’t it? Here, let me …” and he shuffles across the bed, closer to Kylo again, and kisses Kylo gently.

Kylo sighs into Hux’s mouth, reaches his arms out and wraps them around Hux, pulling him closer. Hux grunts, shifts his pelvis away from Kylo before they touch, before Kylo is close enough to be able to feel anything, and Kylo _whines_.

“Shh,” Hux says. “I need space for my hands, Kylo, here.” He reaches up, wraps one of his hands around the back of Kylo’s neck, pulling him in close. His other hand goes to Kylo’s shoulder, slowly slides down his arm and then under the blankets, rests on Kylo’s hip.

Kylo opens his mouth, waits for Hux’s mouth to open under his before sliding his tongue just barely inside, flicking off Hux’s teeth. The inside of Hux’s mouth is—wet, and hot, and amazing, and—

Hux slides his hand into Kylo’s underwear, and rests it against Kylo’s dick.

Kylo gasps. It’s the first time he’s had anyone touch him here, the first time anyone has even been anywhere close, and Hux is—Hux is wrapping his hand around Kylo’s dick, and it’s—so intense, it’s so much better than using his own hand. Hux’s grip is far lighter than Kylo’s, and it’s unusual—Kylo is used to touching himself quickly, quietly, efficiently—and Hux’s grip on him is so _gentle_. Kylo wants to thrust up into it, wants to put his hand over Hux’s and _press_ , wants to—

He can’t concentrate on kissing anymore, not when Hux’s hand is on his dick, and he tucks his head down against Hux’s shoulder, tries to concentrate on steadying his breathing so he’s not just panting, but oh, _fuck_ , this feels so goddamn good and he has no idea what’s going to happen next because it’s someone else’s hand instead of his own, because it’s _Hux’s_ hand, right on Kylo’s dick, and Hux is—

Hux moves his hand the entire way up Kylo’s shaft, pauses for a moment at the top.

“Ah,” he says. “Well, I guess between the foreskin and this—” and he swipes his thumb across the precome dampening the head of Kylo’s dick “—I can probably do this without lube.” He adjusts his grip, curls his hand around Kylo, and starts stroking again.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine,” Kylo says into Hux’s neck. He’s never used lube but he doesn’t have the words or the brainpower to string together a sentence for Hux right now to tell him so. “Oh, fuck, Hux—don’t stop, okay? Don’t stop, please, it feels amazing.” He starts kissing Hux’s neck, trying to be deliberate and careful about it, but it’s so difficult when Hux is touching him like this, it’s hard to keep his head straight, it’s hard to _think_ , to do anything other than lick at Hux’s skin, trying to chase the taste of him, the way his skin tastes, the way it feels to have Hux’s pulse beating under Kylo’s tongue—

“This isn’t the only time,” Hux says, stroking the back of Kylo’s neck in rhythm with the hand currently wrapped around Kylo’s dick. “This isn’t the only time, I promise, I promise—you don’t need to try to hold out on me, just tell me how you want it, tell me what you want me to do, this isn’t the only time—”

“Holy fuck,” Kylo breathes. “Hux, Hux—that feels—oh, fuck, that’s amazing—Hux—” He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to concentrate on—how it feels, to have Hux’s hand in his boxers and Hux’s body pressed so close to his, Hux’s hand on his neck and Hux’s hand on his dick, and Hux holding him close like he doesn’t want to let go of Kylo, not now, and not ever, and— “I’m so close, I’m so close, Hux—harder, just a little, just—”

Someone is panting, and Kylo thinks it’s maybe Hux, is pretty sure his own mouth is closed, but then—oh, fuck, Hux grips him a little more tightly, speeds up just a bit, and Kylo is gone, he’s coming into his underwear with Hux’s hand wrapped around his dick. His legs are shaking and he can’t get enough air into his lungs, his breathing ragged and his tongue thick in his mouth. Kylo can feel his hands twitching irregularly against Hux’s chest, and all he wants to do is curl up inside Hux’s arms and never leave.

Hux strokes him through it, slowing down a little as Kylo’s breath hitches and his dick finally starts to soften.

“Holy shit,” Kylo breathes once his vision clears.

Hux chuckles.

Kylo kisses Hux’s shoulder, pulls back a little so he can see Hux’s face. “That was…wow. Amazing.” He reaches out and rubs his thumb across Hux’s neck, frowns at the scrape marks he’s left with his teeth, the bruise starting to bloom up like a flower opening on the canvas of Hux’s pale skin.

Hux smiles back at him. “It was good for me too,” he says. His hand is still in Kylo’s underwear, knuckles rubbing against the stubble of Kylo’s pubic hair. “You’re all trimmed up, is that for me?”

“Yes,” Kylo says without even thinking about it, too fucked out to worry about whether he’s being too eager. “Shaved it bare the other week.”

Hux winces. “How bad is your razor burn?”

Kylo shrugs his shoulder. “It’s okay.” His entire body feels loose and warm and languid—this isn’t at all like being drunk, this isn’t at all like any orgasm that Kylo has ever had in the past. This is—this is something new, this is exhilarating, this is better even than the orgasms that Hux has already given him, because this one was with Hux’s _hand_ —

“Well,” Hux says. “Don’t feel the need to groom on my behalf, you can do what you want.”

“Do you…” Kylo asks.

“Do I what,” Hux murmurs.

_Shave_ , Kylo wants to ask. _Is it as red down there as it is on your head?_

“Never mind,” Kylo mumbles. “Another time.”

“Alright,” Hux says, sounding amused. He rubs at Kylo’s balls for a moment with his thumb, and then gently manoeuvres his hand out of Kylo’s underwear, and out from under the sheets, keeping it cupped.

Kylo doesn’t realize why until Hux brings his hand up between them, and he realizes that his semen is all over Hux’s hand, coating his fingers and pooling in his palm, and Kylo’s face is suddenly so hot that it feels like his ears are glowing.

“Ugh,” Kylo says. “Sor—”

The word dies in his throat when Hux brings his fingers up to his mouth, and licks across them, eyes fluttering shut.

Kylo shivers, dick twitching. He wants to frame this moment, somehow, do something so that he can keep it forever. Anything to keep it safe, anything to make sure he never forgets how Hux looks with Kylo’s come on his fingers, eyes closed, and smile curving the corners of his mouth.

“Can I—can I hug you?” Kylo asks.

“Mmm,” Hux says, and he swipes his tongue across his palm and then closes his hand, wriggles his shoulders closer toward Kylo.

Kylo pulls him in, wraps his arms around Hux’s torso and pulls Hux into his chest. Hux brings his knees up so that he’s curled into a ball right against Kylo, and Kylo can feel the rise and fall of Hux’s back as he breathes. It feels amazing to have Hux this close to him, and he never—he never wants to stop doing this. He never wants to be apart from Hux, not even for a moment.

Hux looks up, puts his dry hand on the side of Kylo’s face. “So? Was it good?” His thumb runs along Kylo’s stubble.

“It was fucking fantastic,” Kylo says. He feels like he’s fucking glowing somehow, lit on fire from the inside, except nothing is actually going up in flames, everything is just … warm and full of sparks. “Do you want me to—can I—with you?”

“Ha, no,” Hux says, pulling his knees up a bit higher. “You need to shower, Kylo. Before all that dries.”

“Let me,” Kylo says. He runs his hand along the back of Hux’s t-shirt, down to the hem, and then waits for Hux’s okay before going any further.

He doesn’t get it.

“Get in the shower,” Hux says lightly, running his thumb across Kylo’s bottom lip. “Don’t roll any further this way, you’ll get it on the sheets.”

Kylo rolls his eyes. “I’ll wash the sheets, I just—I’ll do anything for you, I’ll—”

“Shower,” Hux repeats, a little tartly.

Kylo exhales heavily, and then throws off the blankets and stands up. His knees feel a little wobbly and unsteady. His dick still hasn’t softened completely, and there are wet patches on his underwear, and—

—and Hux is still watching him, lips slightly pursed, and Kylo blushes under his attention.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Kylo asks.

“I’m fine,” Hux says.

(He doesn’t take his eyes off Kylo.)

 

Kylo is in the shower for a long time, tracing his hand over his dick where Hux’s hand had been. His hangover is back now, pressing insistently behind his eyes, and it’s the only part of the day that actually feels real, because everything else feels like a fever dream that he made up, something that he imagined wholly.

His legs are still wobbly when he finally shuts off the shower, and he towels himself off, looks at himself in the mirror. He looks half-asleep still, but there’s nothing to be done about that. He gets dressed, looks at himself in the mirror one more time, running his hand back through his hair. It’s starting to get long. He thinks he likes it that way.

When he comes out of the bathroom, he just—looks at Hux for a moment. Hux is stunning. He’s sitting up in bed now, with Millicent at his side, and his hand running through her fur. His laptop is open on his lap, and the light from the screen is beaming back at his face, reflecting off his glasses.

“What are you up to today?” Hux asks without looking over. His right hand is palm-up, and his fingers are curled into his palm, stroking his own skin. The last place that hand had been is—

—down Kylo’s pants.

Kylo covers his face with the towel a moment, breathes in the damp, and then realizes he probably looks like an idiot, tries to cover it by running the towel through his hair. He knows the answer to Hux’s question—he’s sure he knows the answer—it’s, uh. It’s Saturday. He’s doing—something, but every time he looks over at Hux, he’s completely derailed again, thinking about how seductive Hux had been this morning, how attracted Kylo is to him right now, how beautiful Hux is, how—

“Library,” Kylo manages finally. “Study group for my philosophy class, then working on my paper. Gym this afternoon, then back to the library, and home this evening after supper?”

“I’ll be here,” Hux says vaguely. His hair is so gorgeous in the sunlight that it hurts Kylo’s chest.

“What are you doing today?”

Hux wrinkles his nose. “Thesis.”

“Oh,” Kylo says. “The one that’s really good.” He leans over to get a look at Hux’s laptop screen, and Hux immediately reaches up to close it so Kylo can’t see anything more than blurs of colour and images laid out in a regular grid pattern. “Looks like online shopping to me,” he says, teasingly, though he didn’t get enough of a look to figure out what Hux is shopping for. He feels—he feels like he _can_ tease Hux now, feels like he’s all hyped up on adrenaline, like there’s literally nothing that could go wrong in his life right now. Like he’s on top of everything, like he’s just had an unexpected victory.

“Fuck off,” Hux says, throwing a pillow at Kylo’s head. His face has gone pink. “Get your ass to the library, and leave me alone.”

Kylo dodges the pillow, and retreats back to the kitchen. “I have that free shipping thing if you want to use my account,” Kylo offers. He still doesn’t know what Hux was buying, but it looked like there was a lot of pink involved, and he’s curious.

“No, thank you,” Hux says, accent sharpened back up to the same enunciation he uses at work. “That’s unnecessary, Kylo.”

Kylo hesitates at the door a moment—and then darts back into the apartment, lands a kiss on the top of Hux’s head that mostly misses the mark, and then runs back to the entrance, sliding his shoes on and ducking the pillow that Hux tosses at his head.

(He still couldn’t quite make out what Hux was purchasing.)

 

Kylo is pounding away on the treadmill, staring into space and thinking about how many hours he has left in his day until he can go home and see Hux again, when the music blaring in his headphones abruptly stops.

He blinks, looks down.

Phasma is standing beside Kylo’s treadmill, holding his headphone cord up between her fingers, her red manicured nails terrifying, and her face flat and cold.

Kylo pulls his earbuds out, and tries to look like he isn’t at all winded from the running. “Y-yeah?”

“What are you doing with your cut?”

“What?”

She rolls her eyes, reaches over, and dials Kylo’s treadmill down to a walk.

Kylo recovers his footing and dials the treadmill back up to a slightly faster walk. “My what?”

“Your cut,” she says flatly. “Of his money.”

“I’m not—” Kylo says. “It’s not—it’s not about the money, I don’t care about the money, I—” And then he stops, snaps his mouth shut. Checks his stats on the treadmill, takes a drink out of his water bottle. It’s supposed to be about the money. “It’s about the money,” he says, but it sounds stupid the minute he says it. “For, uh. Tuition.”

She doesn’t look impressed.

“Rent.”

She still doesn’t look impressed.

“… art supplies?”

She rolls her eyes.

Kylo dials his treadmill down a step, leans over the bar while he speed-walks. “Look,” he says softly. “It’s just—Hux needed help. I want to help him. I don’t want—I don’t want this to be a thing, okay?” Kylo takes a deep breath, tries to think through the adrenaline rush. “He—it’s just—you know Hux, he’s—Hux. I just. Fuck.” He takes a deep breath, tries to steady his voice. He doesn’t have any way to explain to Phasma what he’s actually trying to do, doesn’t have the words for what Hux means to him, can’t speak coherently about anything when she’s _staring_ at him like that.

(All he can think about is Hux’s hand on his dick, and how badly he wants that again. How badly he wants to earn the right to do the same thing back to Hux, slide his hand down into Hux’s pyjama pants and figure out what Hux is wearing underneath the plaid…)

Phasma looks at him, and then leans over and looks at the numbers on his treadmill. “You gonna keep doing cardio, or are you gonna come with me and do some actual work?”

“I always do cardio,” Kylo says.

She shrugs her broad shoulders, tosses his headphone cord back to him, starts walking away. “Your loss.”

Kylo shakes his head, puts in his earbuds, starts thinking of Hux again, and—

_what do you do at the gym_

Fuck.

Kylo yanks his earbuds out, shuts the treadmill off, and hustles after her. “Phasma! Wait!”

She stops walking, looks over at him as he scrambles to catch up.

“What do you know,” she says. “You do learn.” She tips her head back to his machine. “Go clean your sweat off that thing, and get your water bottle. Meet me over at the free weights. I’ll get you started on some real work.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on, Phasma, cardio is real work too!!
> 
> Also, Hux, buddy. You just about derailed Kylo's brain for good there!
> 
> Head on over to [the blog entry](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/05/05/dtd-chapter-nine-breakdown/), if you like--today, we're discussing sex, deep POV, and edit comparisons between my first draft and the published draft.


	10. not waving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living with Kylo is becoming progressively more difficult for Armitage.
> 
> He doesn't want any of this.
> 
> And yet, he has everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Deadsy, for the endless beta work, and to valda, for copyedits!

_Armitage: I don’t know what you’ve done to him, but you need to fix it._

_Phasma: ???_

_[Armitage has sent a picture.]_

_Phasma: ugh, yeah, I’ll work on his form with him_

_Phasma: tell him to arch his back_

_Phasma: straighten his legs_

_Armitage: I’m not telling him anything. I’m leaving. Yoga, Phasma? Seriously?_

_Phasma: it’s good for him_

_Phasma: good 4 u 2_

_Armitage: This conversation is over._

_Phasma: his heels need 2b on floor_

_Phasma: tell him that_

_Armitage: You and I are not on speaking terms. I refuse to pass on your message._

Things do not improve over the course of the week. Armitage’s phone keeps ringing, and he keeps dismissing the calls. His thesis continues to be shit, no matter what he does in the studio—or what he does at home. Kylo is a pain in Armitage’s ass in every single way except literally, and Armitage is being good, Armitage is behaving, Armitage is being a reasonable human being—and fucking _hell_ , keeping himself from bending Kylo over the nearest surface is an exercise in constant self-control, and he’s miserable and cranky because of it.

(And horny. He’s so fucking horny he could scream.)

The apartment is filling up with all kinds of shit—yoga mats of varying thicknesses, resistance bands, foam blocks. Instead of wandering around the apartment with his nose in a textbook and Millie in the pocket of his bunnyhug, Kylo wanders around the apartment with his nose in a textbook, Millie in the pocket of his bunnyhug, and the hand that isn’t holding the textbook rhythmically clenching and releasing some kind of device that’s supposed to increase Kylo’s grip strength. In reality, it’s some kind of a bullshit ploy to keep Armitage distracted by drawing his attention to Kylo’s hands.

He can’t even be in the same room as Kylo for more than fifteen minutes. Even from the bathroom all Armitage can hear is the steady _clink-chick_ of the thing as Kylo clenches it and releases, clenches and releases, clenches—

(Armitage would give him something to clench _on_.)

He sighs, and leans forward. Starts draining the tub, and running hot water again, trying to drown out that fucking noise.

_Fuck_.

 

Armitage nearly trips over Kylo walking into the kitchen, because Kylo is sitting in the middle of the floor like a jackass.

“Watch where you’re going,” Armitage snarls. It’s a stupid fucking statement.

Kylo looks up at him, all innocent, his lips parted slightly. “Sorry, Hux.” There’s a stack of cereal boxes on the floor in front of him.

Armitage scowls at him, opens the fridge. They’d given up on trying to keep the fridge separate— _we can just share groceries, I don’t mind_ —which is fine when the fridge was mostly empty, and it was easy to find his beer among the milk and the boxes of leftover takeout. But now—now, Armitage can hardly find his beer on account of all the fucking _vegetables_ and the gross raw chicken breasts, portioned out by some obscure fucking—

“Side door,” Kylo says.

Armitage looks back at him.

“Your beer,” Kylo says. “I moved it to the side door, I think I accidentally shoved it to the back earlier when I was loading groceries. So it’s got a dedicated spot there now.”

Armitage wants to be mad. He wants to be furious. But he also wants a beer, and they’re way easier to grab out of the side door then they ever were out of the main part of the fridge, so he takes one out, opens it, and takes a long drink before leaning against the counter to look at Kylo, and his stack of fucking cereal boxes. “You meditating on the virtues of your sugar intake?”

Kylo makes a face. He’s wearing skintight yoga pants and a loose black tank with disgustingly large armholes, and Armitage should not be nearly as attracted to him as he is right now, but apparently logic has been thrown out the window, and Armitage is just going to keep being attracted to his mess of a fia—no, his mess of a _roommate_.

“I’m saying goodbye,” Kylo says seriously. “Phasma’s putting me off breakfast cereal.”

Armitage snorts. “She tell you what you’re supposed to replace it with? I mean, you either eat cereal, or you eat takeout, and I’m guessing you’re off that too because there’s raw— _whatever_ in ou—in the fridge.”

“Chicken,” Kylo says mournfully. “And kale.”

“Blech,” Armitage says. He tips his beer back, has another drink. When he finishes, Kylo is staring at him. “Do you want a beer?” Armitage asks.

“Uh,” Kylo says. “Yes, but also, no.” He sighs. “What the hell am I gonna do with all my cereal?”

“Fuck if I care,” Armitage says. He runs his tongue along his teeth. Kylo’s arms are very, very visible in that shirt, and Armitage wants to trace over all those moles with his tongue, connect them with his saliva. Pin Kylo down to the floor and hold him there, or let Kylo pin him, or—anything, really, and that’s a problem. That’s definitely a problem, because Kylo won’t have—won’t have time for him, not in the way that Armitage wants. “Do what you want,” Armitage says, as though Kylo needs his permission to do anything—but when Kylo grins at him with that ridiculous crooked grin of his, it’s entirely too much.

Armitage retreats into the main room.

He sets his beer on the floor, and lies on his stomach on the bed with his laptop in front of him. He’s going to work on his thesis. He’s going to get something productive done, because Kylo is moving stuff around in the kitchen, and he’ll probably be in there a while, and Armitage can just—take a minute, and stop thinking about Kylo’s arms, and—

Kylo pads, barefoot, into the main room, and unrolls his yoga mat.

_Fuck_.

“What’re you working on?” Kylo asks. He bends over and adjusts his mat until it’s lined up with—some fictitious thing that Armitage can’t see, because he’s too busy looking at the curve of Kylo’s ass in those pants. “Hux?”

Armitage bites his lip, and then shifts further down, so that the laptop screen blocks his view. “Exhibition proposal,” he says. “I have to finalize my dates, and give them a general breakdown of how I’m using the space so they can prepare for setup and takedown. The project is just—in a state of flux right now.”

“Starkiller?”

_Yes, Starkiller_ , Armitage means to snap—as though he could be working on anything else—but he props himself up on his elbows in order to make eye contact with Kylo, and suddenly realizes that it’s not safe to be looking in that direction. Kylo’s ass is up in the air, and his head is down between his arms, and fucking _hell_ , Armitage wishes he’d never touched that dick because it’s all he can think about, especially when Kylo is bent over like that. “There are…other components I need to develop for it.”

Kylo makes an encouraging noise and Armitage, for some reason, keeps talking.

“I have an entire gallery to fill. There’s the sculpture and the light show, and I’ve been working on the audio, but there still needs to be more to it than that, and I’m—” Armitage stops talking, chews at his lip again. He can feel the words right there, right behind his teeth— _I can’t do this, I’m failing, I want to quit_ —and he bites them back, pretends they don’t exist. “I’m still working through the thematic elements.”

(His phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out, tosses it on the bed. Ignores it.)

“Talk me through it?” Kylo asks, voice muffled by his arms. His shirt is, frustratingly, tucked into the front of his yoga pants, but it’s sliding down his back, baring just a sliver of his lower back. No tattoos that Armitage can see. “I mean, if you want to. You don’t have to.”

“I won’t,” Armitage says. He rolls over onto his back, and stares at the ceiling. “It’s complicated.”

There’s a gross sound as Kylo unsticks his feet from the mat, and then settles heavily back down onto it again. Armitage looks over, and Kylo is—Kylo is lying on his back now, stretching his legs up over his head, a resistance band curving around the soles of his feet. His flexibility is absolute shit, but it would probably be better if Armitage went over there and just _leaned_ on him, just put his bodyweight on Kylo’s legs and pushed, ran his fingertips up and down Kylo’s thighs to keep him distracted…

Armitage reaches for his beer, takes another swig.

“What’s your artist statement for the piece? I wanted to ask about that, it’s just—I haven’t had a minute, you know?”

Armitage’s thumb is on his ring, rubbing at the silicone. “I know,” he says. He swallows. He should just—leave. Go back to the studio. Do something productive with his life. Give Kylo some space to get an actual boyfriend, while he still has standards. Before he’s started to accept Armitage. “The piece is about transformation.”

“With the stars going out,” Kylo says. “Absorbing the energy inwards to become something else?”

“Yeah,” Armitage says. He’s staring at the bottoms of Kylo’s feet, at the resistance band pulled tight around them. He’s wondering if Kylo likes having that pressure on the soles of his feet. He’s wondering if Kylo would like—no _._ “It sounds like a first year art statement.”

Kylo chuckles. “No way, a first year statement would be, like, _I just want people to interpret whatever they want out of it_ , or _these colours represent my feelings_.”

Armitage looks over at him as Kylo relaxes out of whatever he’s doing, before rolling over onto all fours, interlinking his hands behind his head, and pushing himself up into a partial headstand, feet still planted on the mat. Kylo tentatively brings his knee into his chest, tries to balance it on his elbow in some weird fucking rendition of crow pose that Armitage completely refuses to ask him about.

It takes Kylo a couple of tries to get his knees properly positioned on his elbows, but by the time he does, his shirt has come untucked, and it slides all the way down, baring his stomach to Armitage, and Armitage feels—creepy, to be perfectly honest, but also too grumpy about his thesis to bother moving or looking elsewhere, and anyway, Kylo’s eyes are closed, and so he can’t see Armitage watching him.

“Or,” Kylo says, a little sardonically, “a first year statement would be _the emptiness of space is a perfect metaphor for the loneliness of the human spirit_.”

“That’s not bad,” Armitage says. He’s hardly conscious of the words Kylo has said, is caught staring at Kylo’s bellybutton. He knows there’s hair there, a sparse, barely-there trail that he can just barely feel with his fingers, but he can’t see it, not from this distance.

“Ugh, I’m working it. It’s completely lacking in finesse and subtlety.” Kylo opens his eyes, grins his inverted grin back at Armitage. “Kind of like you staring at me while I’m working out.”

“Whatever,” Armitage says, reaching for his beer.

“No,” Kylo says. “Don’t—don’t stop. I don’t—I don’t mind if you don’t. Mind.”

That’s the problem, though.

Armitage doesn’t mind at all.

 

_Armitage: Seriously, you need to stop._

_Phasma: he’s pretty dedicated, huh?_

_Phasma: showing results quickly_

_Armitage: Please. It’s intolerable._

_Phasma: please._

_Phasma: lol_

_Phasma: u got yourseif into this mess_

_Phasma: told u when u came crying to me that u needed to shut it down_

_Phasma: u said u would_

_Phasma: next thing u told me u needed was a contract_

_Phasma: ur bad decisions not my problem_

_Phasma: enjoy ur swole boy_

 

It’s a fad. Kylo’s obsession with the gym is a passing fad, and so are the protein shakes and the healthy eating and the meal prep. Sooner or later, Armitage is going to come home, and Kylo will have stocked the fridge back up with ready-made shit, and he’ll be lying on the bed watching Netflix instead of—working on his flexibility, and bitching about how sore he is, and Armitage just wants to—bite him, right in his bicep. Dig his thumbs into the sore spots on Kylo’s back. It’s all he can do to just put one hand down Kylo’s pants and the other on Kylo’s neck, the way Kylo likes, when what Armitage wants to do is touch Kylo all over his body, rub oil on him and then rut against him.

But it’s not a fad.

It’s not a fad because it just keeps _happening_ , and Armitage is hair-trigger in a way that he hasn’t been since he was a teenager. His heart rate picks up the moment he hears Kylo’s key in the lock—and Armitage has to keep the apartment locked now, even when he’s home, because that key in the lock is the only warning he gets to collect himself, try to look normal, but it’s _awful_ because Armitage’s blood either goes right to his face, or right to his dick.

Tonight is a face night. Fantastic. There’s nothing he needs more than Kylo coming home to Armitage, flushed and sitting in bed with his laptop on his lap like he’s been jacking off. Armitage is just going to stare at his computer, run his hand along Millie’s back, and not make eye contact—except he looks up, like a fucking idiot, the moment Kylo comes in. Kylo looks just as fantastic as Armitage had hoped, all sweaty from the gym, bag tossed casually over his shoulder, hair hanging lank around his face, and a couple of boxes held easily in one arm.

“Hey,” Kylo says. “Your packages came, do you want a knife to open these with?”

Armitage’s ears get hot. “Uh, no,” he says casually, reaching up to adjust his glasses, and ignoring whatever the fuck his pulse is doing. “Just drop them on the kitchen counter. I’m kind of—buried by my cat at the minute here, I’ll open them later.”

“They’re fucking heavy,” Kylo says, giving the packages an experimental shake. _Thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk._

“Please put them down,” Armitage says, voice coming out a little strangled. His hand twitches on Millie’s fur, and she yowls, gets up and saunters to the end of the bed, jumps down to the floor.

Kylo shrugs, sets them down on the counter and his gym bag on the floor, and then wipes his hand across his forehead.

“Rough workout?” Armitage asks, and _fuck_ , he did not mean to say that, because he does not want to know.

“Shit, yeah,” Kylo says. “Phasma is fucking terrifying. She’s all _wanna spar_ and I’m like _yeah sure_ because what’s the worst that can happen.” He unzips his gym bag, and pulls out his shoes. “She wiped the fucking floor with me.”

“Ha,” Armitage says, entranced by the way Kylo’s hair falls forward over his eyes. “Yeah, she does that. She’s done that to me too, if that helps.”

Kylo looks at him sharply, shoes still dangling from the tips of his fingers. “You trained with her?” His eyes track up and down Armitage’s body.

Armitage bites his lip. Forces himself to stop. “Not physical training,” he says. “Not like you. It was just—” _self-defense classes_ , except he doesn’t want to have that conversation now, later, or ever. “Screwing around.”

“Oh,” Kylo says, suddenly all quiet.

Armitage realizes, instantly, that he’s chosen the wrong phrasing. Hurt Kylo’s feelings. “Not like that,” he says hurriedly. “Phasma’s ace. Asexual. She doesn’t—we’ve never.” He chews at his lip again, forces himself to swallow. “She’s aro—aromantic too, so basically, uh. The opposite of. The opposite of me.”

“Because you’re queer,” Kylo says.

“Right.”

Kylo sets his shoes down on the mat, stands up. “Is it…is it bad that I’m gay?”

Armitage pinches his nose, discards every reaction he has, and looks back over at Kylo. Kylo looks…stricken, almost. Armitage sighs, closes his laptop, pats the bed beside him. “Come sit down,” he says.

Kylo comes over and flops onto the bed beside Armitage, pulling a pillow over his face and curling against Armitage’s leg.

“You know it doesn’t matter,” Armitage says. “Right?”

“I know it doesn’t matter in general,” Kylo mumbles into the pillow. “But, like. In specific. For this.”

“For the fake engagement? It hardly—”

“No,” Kylo insists. “For _us_.”

(There is no _us_ , Armitage thinks—but he doesn’t correct Kylo.)

“No,” Armitage says softly. He rests his hand on Kylo’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. Not for this.” He lets his hand wander up to Kylo’s hair where it’s hidden underneath the pillow, and then sneaks his hand further in and tugs at Kylo’s earlobe. “My occasional attraction to women—and I assure you, it is occasional—has no bearing on our situation.”

Kylo mumbles something into the pillow.

“Hmm?”

“Women are prettier than I am,” Kylo says sulkily, lifting the pillow off his face just long enough for Armitage to see his ridiculous pout.

The pout should not, under any circumstances, be attractive—but it is. It really, really is.

“Oh, come now,” Armitage says, tugging at the lank ends of Kylo’s hair. “Literally the only thing women have over you is that they generally shower _at_ the gym, instead of bringing their stink home to their fake boyfriend.”

Kylo shoves the pillow back over his face again. “Fuuuuuuuck.”

“Go on,” Armitage says. “Go have the rest of your breakdown in the shower, okay? And then come back out here and kiss me.”

Kylo peers out from underneath the pillow. “Really?”

“Really,” Armitage says. “You need the practise anyway.” He leans down and kisses Kylo lightly, just to take the sting out of it. Kylo’s lips curve into a smile under his own.

Armitage waits until Kylo is in the shower, bathroom door shut, before he gets out of bed, adjusts himself. “Millie,” he calls gently. “Did you want to come—hey,” he snaps, the moment he sees where she is. “Get off his yoga mat.”

Millicent looks up from where she’s kneading at the corner of the mat with her claws, and then goes right back to wrecking Kylo’s mat again, so Armitage stalks over, scoops her up into his arms, and then cradles Millie to his chest, and sits right back down on the mat.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He doesn’t want—he doesn’t want _this_ , he doesn’t want Kylo’s insecurities, he doesn’t want to—hold onto them and manage them and make Kylo feel better, except for the part where he _does_ want that, he does want that very much and it’s awful. It’s this weird kind of hell where every time he does something right he just ends up sinking further into the muck of this fake _bullshit_ , and he wishes very much that he’d never told Kylo _yes_ , that he hadn’t continued to keep telling Kylo _yes,_ that he could just start telling Kylo to fuck right off and take all of his stupid feelings with him—

—and that’s the solution, and it’s very fucking obvious. He’s just going to start telling Kylo _no_. Armitage is going to start telling Kylo _no_ , and he’s going to use that as leverage to extract himself out of this mess, and then things will be easy again. Things will be easy again because he’s going to say—

“Hey,” Kylo says from the closet. He’s dressed again—loose sweatpants hanging off his hips, a ratty black v-neck t-shirt that’s pulled much tighter across his chest than it was the last time he wore it, and his hair still dripping from the shower. “You, uh. You still want that kiss?”

“Yes,” Armitage says immediately, and he fucking hates himself for it—and then he stops hating himself, because Kylo drops his towel on the floor, crosses the room, kneels in front of Armitage—and _fuck_ , Kylo tastes _good_. Toothpaste and shower gel—something new, that smells faintly like pine trees and lakes, but weak enough that Armitage can still smell Kylo underneath. Between them, Millie yowls, and then squeezes out of Armitage’s grasp—and Armitage has nothing else to do with his hands, so he puts them on Kylo’s thighs, and Kylo moans into his mouth, wet hair falling forward onto Armitage’s neck as Kylo crowds into him. As Armitage lets himself be pushed backward onto the yoga mat, Kylo Ren on top of him, he has a hard time remembering why he even wanted to say no to this in the first place.

He reaches up and locks his arms around Kylo’s neck, pulls himself halfway up and kisses him back, open-mouthed and gentle. Kylo makes a very small, very vulnerable whimpering sound, and it goes directly to Armitage’s cock. Armitage shifts a little on the mat, starts tracing his right hand down Kylo’s back to his waist, and then he rucks up the hem of Kylo’s shirt, traces his fingers over Kylo’s bare back.

Kylo pulls back from Armitage’s mouth. “Feels really good,” he says, a bit breathlessly.

Armitage lowers himself back down onto the mat, lets his eyes trace down Kylo’s chest to his sweatpants, where the outline of his hardening dick is clearly visible.

Armitage’s mouth is dry. He swallows. Kylo is on all fours above him, legs bracketing Armitage’s thighs, and the responsible thing to do would be to ask, and that’s what he’s going to do. He’s going to ask. Except—before he asks, Armitage just shifts a little further down, reaches out to touch Kylo through his pants. Kylo’s dick is—oh, _hell_ , it’s hard and hot even through his sweatpants. Armitage presses his palm upward, trapping Kylo’s dick against his stomach, and Kylo shudders over top of him. Armitage drags his fingers slowly down the length of Kylo’s shaft, reaching a little lower with his other hand to cup Kylo’s balls through the sweatpants. They’re big and heavy, and if Armitage hadn’t already known exactly how turned on Kylo is right now, he would know just by the strangled whimper Kylo makes as Armitage touches him. There’s a small wet spot just at the tip of Kylo’s dick, soaking through the fabric, and Armitage can never get enough of it, can never get enough of how easily Kylo falls apart for him, can never get enough of _Kylo_ , and Armitage wants—more than this, he wants to do more than just touch Kylo with his hands, he wants—

Fuck it.

He’s gonna suck Kylo’s dick.

Armitage tips his head up to make eye contact. “Hey,” he says.

“H-hey.” Kylo’s eyes are already vague and unfocused, his breathing heavy.

“How do you want your first blowjob?”

Kylo shudders, closes his eyes for a moment. “Uh, I, uh.” When he opens his eyes again, his pupils are blown black. “However you like. Hux. Please.”

Armitage takes his hand away from Kylo’s balls, keeps rubbing his palm over the head of Kylo’s cock. The fabric underneath his hand is damp and hot. “Spread your legs a little for me, yeah?”

Kylo shifts awkwardly, and Armitage taps him on the thigh.

“My hips are a little wider than that, can you—?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kylo says, and he obediently moves his legs apart until Armitage is able to slide right between them, until Kylo’s sweatpant-clad dick is right over his face.

“I’m gonna pull your sweats down,” Armitage says, and for a moment, he’s not entirely certain whether he’s trying to reassure Kylo or whether he’s trying to reassure himself. He’s never been this long in a relationship—even a fake one, _especially_ a fake one—with someone without having seen them completely naked, and all he knows of Kylo’s dick is the way it feels in his hands, not the way it actually _looks_ —

He reaches up and grabs the waistband of Kylo’s sweats, pulls it out and around to give Kylo’s dick some space.

And holy fucking _shit_ does Kylo’s dick need space. It’s bigger than Armitage had expected, long and heavy, foreskin already pulling back from the head. There’s a drop of precome glistening at the tip, and more of it smeared on the head. There’s a slight upward curve to it, and the flare of the corona is more intense than what Armitage had been imagining based on touching it. Kylo’s balls are starting to pull up to his body already, and his pubic hair is long enough now that it’s starting to curl slightly at the base of his cock.

Armitage’s mouth is dry and his head is spinning on account of how fast the blood has rushed to his own dick, just from _seeing_ Kylo’s cock, finally seeing it instead of guessing what he can from layers of clothing and the texture of the thing in his hand, the way it fits into his grip. He wants he wants he _wants_ and he has to close his eyes for a moment just to get a grip on himself, just to remind himself that he doesn’t get to stick it up his ass, he doesn’t get to fuck himself on it. This is a teaching experience, this is making sure Kylo knows how to be a reasonable sexual partner for someone else, this is making sure Kylo doesn’t pick up any bad habits, like thrusting deep into his partner’s throat, because with a dick that size—

Armitage opens his eyes just as precome drips from the head of Kylo’s dick. It lands on Armitage’s nose, drooling obscenely from Kylo’s slit, and Armitage can—he can smell it, the heat and sweat and _arousal_ coming from Kylo, the nervous energy crackling in the air between them, the way Kylo is shuddering above him, muscles twitching.

Armitage tips his head up, extends his tongue, and licks Kylo’s cock from base to tip.

“Holy fuck,” Kylo breathes above him. “Hux.”

The thing is—Armitage fully intends to go slowly. He wants to give Kylo the kind of blowjob that Kylo has only dreamed about, the kind of blowjob where he edges Kylo forever, swirling his tongue around the head of Kylo’s dick, pressing that dick slowly into his throat. Armitage wants to give the kind of blowjob where Kylo will be panting his name, near tears, the kind of blowjob where Armitage won’t let him come, will draw it out as long as possible, will make it last, the kind of blowjob that nobody else will be able to give Kylo, not now, and not ever—

Instead, Armitage wraps his arms around Kylo’s waist, kisses the tip of Kylo’s dick, and then opens his mouth and laves the entire thing with the flat of his tongue before closing his lips around it, and beginning to work it into his throat. Armitage has forgotten— _fuck_ , Kylo is big—he’s forgotten how much he loves sucking cock. Kylo’s is perfect for it, long and thick, and Armitage is absolutely starving for it even though this is a mistake. It’s a bad angle, a difficult position, and this should be a teaching moment. He should be—he should be lecturing Kylo on blowjob etiquette, on how to politely receive—but he doesn’t want to say anything because if he says something, he’ll have to take Kylo’s dick out of his mouth. If he says something, Kylo is going to try even harder to suppress the little quivers of his hips as he involuntarily thrusts downward, movements small and irregular, into Armitage’s mouth, and it’s poor manners—but holy fuck, Armitage doesn’t want him to stop, would let Kylo pin him down and _gag_ him with it because the dick is just that good.

(Because _Kylo_ is just that good.)

“Hux, Hux, Hux, Hux,” Kylo says above him, chanting the name like it’s a benediction.

Armitage swallows, works his way up from the base up to the tip of Kylo’s cock again, pressing his tongue hard against the frenulum. The angle is awkward as hell, but it’s worth it to have Kylo above him like this, to be completely surrounded by him.

“Aaaaaaah,” Kylo gasps above him. “Hux, H-Hux—”

Armitage replaces his mouth with his hand just long enough lie back on the mat, look up at Kylo. “It’s Armitage,” he breathes. “Please, call me—call me that, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course, I’m sorry, I—I—”

Armitage wants to tell Kylo that he’s never been so beautiful as he is right now, half-delirious with what Armitage is doing to him, muscles shaking as he tries to keep himself propped up so Armitage has room to work. He wants to tell Kylo that he is absolutely stunning, just like this, that he’ll have no problem finding and keeping a boyfriend when he’s this damn gorgeous, when he’s smart and a good listener, when he cares about his studies and his work and when he’s so good at faking that he cares—that he cares for his fake partner—

Armitage reaches up and wraps his hand around Kylo’s waist, puts his lips back around Kylo’s cock. He tugs Kylo down onto him, and relaxes his throat to allow Kylo’s cock even further in, moves his other hand over to Kylo’s balls, heavy and tight, and gently pulls at them, holding them firmly.

Kylo gasps and twitches, hips stuttering. “Fuck, fucking—fucking, fuck, I, please, I, I’m gonna come if you, if you keep—keep that up, I’m gonna—I—Armitage, _Armitage_ —”

Armitage feels it through Kylo’s entire body when Kylo comes, every muscle twitching and Kylo’s voice degenerating into a wordless groan. Armitage gags briefly around Kylo’s cock, and then swallows once before pulling off and finishing Kylo with his hand, letting the last few spurts fall down across his cheeks and onto his glasses.

When Kylo is done coming—still propped up on his elbows, entire body shaking but dick starting to go limp—Armitage tilts his head up and kisses Kylo’s tip, licking the last few drops of come from it before gently pulling Kylo’s foreskin back over the head, and nudging Kylo in the hip.

“Move over, yeah?” His voice is much hoarser than what he’d expected.

Kylo does as he asks, landing heavily on his side. His face is flushed, his dick still impressive even as it wilts against his thigh. His hand is on Armitage’s waist, and it’s so fucking _big_ that it makes Armitage’s throat dry.

“Hey,” Kylo says throatily. “That was … magnificent, holy shit.”

Armitage snorts. His cheeks are warm. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “It was…wow. Like, I’m kinda sorry I basically came instantly, but also, not really, because that was…wow.”

“You did good,” Armitage says, and he feels stupid the minute he says it, feels suddenly—suffocated by Kylo, and the look in Kylo’s eyes, and the way that Kylo is reaching out to stroke his cheek, fingertips dragging down Armitage’s cheekbones and—

“I need to piss,” Armitage mutters, rolling away from Kylo and getting up off the floor to escape into the bathroom, except he doesn’t even make it there, ends up standing in the walk-in closet just _shaking_. He can’t—he can’t piss, there’s no fucking way, not when he’s this hard, not when—not when he’s this overwhelmed by fucking—by fucking _feelings_ , which he never wanted in the first place, and this is why—this is why he was going to say _no_ , this is exactly why he was going to say _no_ and—and Armitage just needs to focus, he needs to focus on—on the part of this where he’s teaching Kylo, the part of this where Kylo is supposed to be learning something, the part where he’s making Kylo into a better boyfriend for somebody else, because it’s only a matter of time until everything falls apart because everything always does, because he’s ruined everyone who has touched him from the moment he was born—he can’t even _see_ , there’s come smeared on his lenses, and this is—

“Hey,” Kylo says, coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around Armitage’s chest, nuzzling into his neck. “Are you okay, buddy?”

“I’m not your buddy,” Armitage says automatically, trying to shrug out of Kylo’s embrace.

Kylo kisses him on the ear and Armitage turns into it, hating himself. He kisses Kylo back, mouth open, Kylo’s tongue stroking against his, Kylo’s hands going from his chest down to his stomach, and his stomach down to—

Armitage tucks his pelvis back, turns away. “Don’t.”

“I just—”

“Do you see me getting myself off?” Armitage asks tartly.

“…no, but—”

“Then don’t volunteer.” His face feels—tight, his mouth the wrong shape. “This isn’t about me,” he says, because he’s a fucking child that doesn’t know when to stop talking, because he always needs to beat a horse long past the point where it’s stopped breathing, because he’s always been like this—irritating, acidic, useless. “This is about you, and you’ve already gotten off. I have—I have work to do. I can’t just—put a stop to everything for something as—for something as petty as an _orgasm_.”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, backing off, face hurt and eyes wounded. “Yeah, okay. I get it, Hux. Armitage. I get it.”

“Good,” Armitage mutters. He waits for Kylo to step back, and then retreats, shuts the bathroom door firmly behind him. Sits on the floor, and tries to get his breathing under control, forget about his hardon, just—get _himself_ under control, because he’s supposed to be the responsible one in this, he’s supposed to be the one in control, he’s supposed to be _teaching_ , not—not getting fucking carried away with all of this—with all of _this_ , with _Kylo_ , with—

He pours a bath, and can’t bear to get in it. Sits on the cold floor for an hour staring at the side of the tub. Eventually, he drains the water without ever having gotten in it. Washes his face, cleans his glasses. Scrapes Kylo’s dried come off the frame of his glasses, and washes them again. Changes into his pyjamas, and leaves the bathroom. Kylo is already in bed, covers pulled up around his ears, curled up facing the bookshelves.

Armitage kneels down, reaches under the bed, and pulls out his beer-stained sheets. He holds them to his chest, tries to pull himself together. He’ll just—he’ll sleep in these. It’ll be fine. Millicent is nowhere to be seen, and Kylo is facing the wall, and this is fine, this is _fine_ —

“Come into bed,” Kylo says, his voice blurry. He rolls over to face Armitage, holds up his arm to make a space in the sheets the same way he had done that very first night.

“You’re sulking,” Armitage says.

“I can sulk and cuddle at the same time,” Kylo says. His eyes aren’t even open, but his face is soft, and his lips are parted, and maybe—

—maybe Armitage would feel a little bit better if he got into bed with Kylo. Just for a bit.

Armitage drops his filthy sheets on the floor, and climbs into bed, curls up against Kylo’s chest.

Kylo wraps his arm around Armitage’s shoulders, and nuzzles into his hair.

It’s fine.

Armitage lies there, body tense and jaw clenched, until Kylo falls asleep.

“It’s not you,” he says, once Kylo’s breathing is soft and regular and he knows Kylo won’t hear him. “It’s me. It’s just me.”

“Okay,” Kylo replies sleepily. “Have a good sleep, Armitage.”

But Armitage can’t sleep.

Not after that.

 

Armitage feels like shit when he wakes up—soft, and vulnerable, and he can’t even—he can’t even remember why he was angry at Kylo in the first place. He remembers every single detail about the dreams he’d had last night, and he wishes he didn’t, and he just—needs to find something else to focus on. Something that isn’t Kylo.

(Something that isn’t Kylo’s dick.)

 

_Armitage: I need some shifts._

_Poe: Trouble in paradise?_

_Armitage: Absolutely not. My thesis is temporarily delayed, and I’m saving up to buy Kylo something nice._

Armitage stares at his phone in horror. What the fuck. What the _fuck_ has he just typed. What the fuck. That’s not—that’s not what he wants at all. He just—he just wants to get the fuck out of the apartment for a few days. Find something to focus on that isn’t Kylo, because every time he looks at Kylo, he can feel his chest twitch and it’s really uncomfortable, it’s fucking him up, it’s weirding him out, he wants it to _stop—_

_Poe: You sure he needs that?_

_Armitage: Let me know when my shifts are, Dameron._

If nothing else, Resistance delivers exactly what he needs—and Armitage gets a set of three twelve-hour shifts, three glorious days where he can split his time between his studio and the coffee shop, three glorious days where he hardly sees Kylo at all. He feels like absolute shit for all three of them. His head pounds constantly, and he keeps catching himself picking at his cuticles with his nails, completely wrecking the manicure he’d given himself earlier.

Kylo shows up at Resistance on the last day of Armitage’s shifts. He doesn’t say a fucking word to Armitage—just orders a black coffee that he doesn’t drink, sits down at the table by the fireplace, and settles in with his textbooks and his notebook and eight different pens. Armitage resolves to ignore him completely—and Kylo makes it easy, because he won’t even acknowledge that Armitage is there.

“You may as well go, Dopheld,” Armitage says, ten minutes before close. “I’ll handle close.”

“Sure,” Dopheld replies. “I’ll just wait till this guy leaves.”

“Don’t bother,” Armitage says. “I’ll look after it.”

Dopheld’s eyebrows furrow, and he looks like he’s going to say something stupid—so Armitage heads that off.

“I have this, Mitaka.”

Dopheld hesitates again, takes another look at Kylo. Kylo is wearing a headband today, of all things—some bright yellow fuzzy thing, pulling his hair back from his face and exposing those ridiculous ears.

Armitage is just about to tell Mitaka to go the fuck home—and then the other man shrugs, heads into the back to collect his belongings. Armitage sees him out, locks the door behind him, and turns to face Kylo.

Kylo ignores him.

_Whatever_ , Armitage thinks, scowling, and he goes about the rest of the closing routine, finishing everything up in record time, and then just leaning against the counter and _waiting._

It’s thirty minutes past the time when Armitage should have left when he finally folds.

“I’m leaving out the back,” he says curtly. “You planning to sleep here?”

Kylo stands up, puts his textbooks in his backpack, and slings it over his shoulder. Looks at Armitage. Armitage turns away in disgust, goes into the back room with Kylo following at his heels.

Armitage takes his apron, folds it, tucks it in his locker. Takes his personal belongings out, and is just locking the locker again when Kylo speaks.

“Are you mad at me?”

_What the fuck kind of question is that_ , Armitage wants to snap, but he makes the mistake of turning before he opens his mouth, and _fuck_ , does Kylo look upset right now. “Ren.”

“Don’t _Ren_ me,” Kylo snaps. “What did I do? Was it me? Did I fuck it up somehow?”

“Look, I don’t know—”

“Armitage,” Kylo says.

Armitage stops talking.

“You fucked off after you blew me,” Kylo says. “It’s been—it’s been three days, and you haven’t left, but you’re not back either, you’re being really fucking weird, and I don’t know—”

“I’m not weird,” Armitage snaps, voice going shrill. “This is normal, this is fine, this is—”

“That was my first blowjob,” Kylo retorts. “If there’s some fucking—rules or some shit, you can’t punish me for not knowing what they are. I tried to reciprocate, I fucking tried, and you’re just being—you’re being such an asshole about it.”

Armitage takes a deep breath—and then exhales, leans back against the lockers. “Okay,” he says. “Fine.”

“Okay?” Kylo asks, voice breaking.

“Yeah,” Armitage says. “Okay, fair. I’m being an asshole.” And then, because he can’t—he can’t not be that person, he follows it up with, “I told you I was. When you offered to let me move in. I said—”

“I expect you to _try_ , okay?” Kylo snaps. “You’re the one that always tells me how this is fake, how we’re only doing this for the money, how I’m supposed to learn—so fucking show me how to work through this! Show me how to resolve it! Show me how you’re supposed to talk something like this out, because I don’t —I don’t know what the fuck is _wrong_ here.”

“I don’t know how to talk things out,” Armitage snaps.

Kylo hesitates, takes a step back. “How do you not know how to talk things out? You’ve been in relationships before, you were—for years, you were, and—”

“I don’t know how to talk things out,” Armitage repeats.

“How do you…how do you usually sort out arguments, then?”

Armitage exhales heavily, pinches the bridge of his nose.

Closes his eyes, and kneels.

 

Armitage blows Kylo right there in the back room, Kylo’s back braced against the shelves and his hands twitching on Armitage’s shoulders. Kylo’s dick is just as good the second time as it was the first, and even then, even though his dick is fucking magnificent, it’s not nearly as good as the way Kylo pants and moans and comes undone above him, hips twitching erratically as Armitage sucks him off. When Kylo finally throws his head back and comes, babbling Armitage’s name—his first name this time, only his first name—it feels like a resolution that Armitage doesn’t deserve, that he shouldn’t get to have.

Armitage swallows, swipes his tongue across his teeth to clear the remnants of Kylo out of his mouth. Kisses Kylo gently on his hip, and then sits back on his heels, lets Kylo tuck himself back into his pants. The concrete is hard under his knees, and when Armitage gets up from the floor, there’s dust tainting his dress pants. Kylo takes one look at him and disappears back out to the front again, which is fine. Any minute now, the resentment is going to set in. He’d expected it to kick in sooner, to be honest—it usually does—but now is fine too. Any minute now, he’ll start to feel it curling up from his toes, creeping through his body, tainting everything. Another week or so of conciliatory blowjobs, and Armitage will hate the sight of Kylo’s perfect cock. Another two weeks from that, and he’ll sneer every time Kylo’s hand goes to his belt buckle, another three weeks further and he’ll be able to light the contract on fire and walk away without looking back—

“Drink?” Kylo asks. He’s holding a disposable cup full of water. “Got it from out front,” he says hurriedly. “Not tap.”

“Thanks,” Armitage says. He takes the cup, drains it, and then tosses it into the trash.

(The resentment hasn’t kicked in yet. His chest feels warm, his limbs loose. His cock is hard. The resentment hasn’t kicked in yet.)

“Thank you,” Kylo says softly. “I just wish—”

“Want to head home?” Armitage asks, cutting in before Kylo has a chance to continue.

“Yeah,” Kylo says, sounding relieved. “Yeah, I do.”

Armitage sets the security system, checks the back door once they’re both outside. “Think we’re good here,” he says.

“Me too,” Kylo says, reaching out and interlacing his fingers with Armitage’s. “I’m good too.” Kylo squeezes Armitage’s hand, and makes an encouraging sound—like somehow, it’s all going to be okay.

 

(It’s not going to be okay. Any minute now, the resentment will kick in. Any minute now.)

 

Armitage lies awake until four in the morning, staring at the ceiling and listening to Kylo snore lightly beside him. All he feels is fondness and affection. There isn’t any resentment.

There isn’t any resentment at all.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, every time we learn something about Hux's backstory or his previous relationships, it just gets more and more depressing up in here. This is a happy story, I promise--it started as a fluff prompt!!--but we've just gotta dig through some things to get there.
> 
> This week's blog entry talks about [the way the aftermath of the blowjob went down](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/05/12/dtd-chapter-10-breakdown/), and includes some deleted dialogue and my rationale for deleting it, in case that's your thing!
> 
> Also, I'm going to try and get better at documenting my titles, since I never remember to do that in the blog entries. This week's title is, in fact, a reference to the Stevie Smith poem 'Not Waving But Drowning', which you can read [here](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/not-waving-drowning) if you haven't. It's one of my favourite poems, and I would definitely recommend giving it a read.


	11. cooking by the book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo is going to have that discussion with Armitage.
> 
> He's going to.
> 
> He's actually going to.
> 
> (He doesn't.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my thanks to deadsy for her beta work, and valda for the copyedits!
> 
> In addition to the *hand gesture* regular stuff for this fic, please note that this chapter includes some food stuff including a handfeeding scene. If you'd like me to bootleg you a copy of the chapter without that in it, just toss me a line and I'll get that right over to you! The scene isn't integral to understanding the fic. It just happened and I went with it.

“—all the way to the moon.”

Kylo looks up from his journal, squints at his phone. “What?”

“I _knew_ you weren’t listening!” Rey crows triumphantly, voice slightly echoed over the speakerphone.

“Ugh,” Kylo says. “I was trying, I swear. I’m just—working some stuff out.”

The page in front of him doesn’t have much on it, though, considering how long he’s been sitting here. It’s a point-form list of things that he’s going to talk to Hux—to Armitage—about, but he hasn’t gotten much further than _both blowjobs yesterday were amazing_ and _thank you_ and _I don’t want to set a precedent…_ except he’s not actually sure what he doesn’t want to set a precedent _for._

(Also, his deliberations have distracted him, and now there’s a huge green ink blot at the end of that sentence, so this page will need to be carefully cut out of his journal anyway.)

“Did you wanna talk about it?” Rey asks, voice a little quieter.

“Nope,” Kylo says immediately. “Can’t talk about it with you.”

“…did you wanna talk about it with Finn?”

“Even less,” Kylo says. He caps his pen, taps it on the surface of his journal. “Armitage isn’t very—he doesn’t want to talk about…something weird happened the other day, where he…” Kylo pauses for a moment, gropes around for a neutral version of what happened. “Things were going well, and then they…weren’t, so he was just…really nice to me, but I feel…bad about him being…nice. He couldn’t talk about it, and I…don’t want that.”

“Wow,” Rey drawls on the other end of the line. “Can’t imagine how frustrating that must be, when you want to talk things out with somebody, and instead they’re just like ‘how about we go play pinball, you like pinball’.”

“…okay, fair, but this is different.”

“How?” Rey demands. “How is it different?”

_It’s a blowjob, not pinball_ , Kylo thinks. _It’s really, really different._ “So, uh. Anyway. How’s school?”

Rey huffs out an exasperated sigh, but goes with it. “Do you think Leia would let me advance a grade if you told her I needed it?”

“I think Leia is not gonna do anything I suggest to her, regardless of whether or not it involves you.”

“I miss Finn,” she whines. “How come he got to go up a grade and I didn’t?”

Kylo can think of a handful of reasons, but instead, he just uncaps his pen and starts carefully drawing patterns on the side of the page. “School’s almost out for the summer, that’ll help.”

“Ugh, yeah,” she says. “I guess. I just think…”

By the time their phone call finishes, Kylo’s entire page is full of swirls and dots, geometric hashes and little scatterings of triangles. He stretches back against the concrete bench he’s leaning against, and squints up at the sun for a moment—and then takes his penknife out of his pocket, very carefully cuts the sullied page out of his journal, and starts writing again.

Kylo has the entire talk planned out by the time he gets home. Then he opens the door to the apartment, and everything derails immediately.

“Are you cooking?” Kylo asks incredulously.

“What,” Armitage drawls. “You thought I couldn’t do it?” He’s wearing an apron, of all things. Black, full torso coverage, well fitted. Underneath the apron, he’s wearing a black sleeveless undershirt, and tight black jeans. He’s wearing his glasses, but his hair is slicked back like armour, the same way he usually does it at work.

Kylo sticks the tips of his fingers into his front pocket, touches the edge of the paper. It’s okay. He can do this. “I never said that,” Kylo says. He takes off his shoes, and then goes around to the other side of the breakfast bar, sets his backpack down and nudges it with his foot until it’s pressed against the counter. “I just—I’m surprised, is all.” He looks over at Armitage and Armitage looks up, meets his eyes directly.

Kylo feels it the entire way up his spine—sparks, electricity, _light_. He closes his eyes for a moment, bites his tongue—and when he opens his eyes again, Armitage is looking back down at the food on the stove, poking at it with a spatula.

“I know how to cook,” Armitage says, already sounding surly.

“It smells good,” Kylo says, trying to be reassuring. “It smells really good, Armitage.”

Armitage shifts his jaw, and doesn’t look up. “I talked to Phasma this afternoon.”

“Oh?” Kylo swings his arm up over his head, stretches out his tricep. He didn’t go to the gym today, but he’s sore as hell regardless, and even though he’s supposed to be taking a day off, maybe he’ll—do some yoga or something after supper, see if that helps. His chest aches, his arms hurt, and he made the mistake of sitting in his afternoon lecture instead of slouching against the wall, and he could hardly get out of the desk at the end of class. He switches arms, stretches the other one out, and then walks over to the dividing wall between the kitchen and the main room and places his palm on the wall, stretching out his chest and bicep.

Armitage is staring at him, teeth dug into his bottom lip.

“You talked to Phasma,” Kylo prompts.

Armitage twitches, turns back to the stove, and pokes at the pan again, mutters something to the breakfast bar.

“What?”

“Your macros,” Armitage says tersely. “I talked to Phasma. This is fine. For your diet.”

Kylo’s face is warm. He ducks his head, switches arms, stretches facing the bed instead of the kitchen just so he can have a goddamn minute, just so he doesn’t get distracted thinking about Hux—about _Armitage—_ talking to Phasma about _him._ “Thank you,” he says, after a moment. When he’s sure that his voice won’t shake.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Kylo takes it out, leans back against the wall.

_Rey: don’t u forget_

_Kylo: I won’t. He’s making me supper right now._

_Kylo: I’ll ask after supper._

_Rey: whats for supper_

Kylo frowns at his phone. “Hey, Armitage.”

“Mmm?”

“Do you know how to use emojis?”

“Do I—” Armitage huffs out a breath. “Obviously.”

“Can you show me?” Kylo crosses over to where Armitage is standing, leans against the counter next to the stove.

Armitage turns down the burner on the stove, and carefully stirs the food again, and then leans over, peering at Kylo’s phone. “Right there,” he says, reaching over and taking Kylo’s finger, nudging it across the keys.

(There’s a scattering of freckles across Armitage’s shoulders, pale and delicate and fucking gorgeous. It’s the first time Kylo has seen Armitage’s shoulders bare, and it seizes something in his chest.)

“Thank you,” Kylo says. He awkwardly scrolls through the little pictures of food, squinting until he finds something that looks like the raw vegetable remnants on the cutting board before carefully tapping it with his finger.

“Hold up there,” Armitage says, voice amused. “Who’re you texting?”

“My sister,” Kylo says.

Armitage reaches over again, physically plucks Kylo’s hand away from the phone, and then erases the entire message. “Don’t text her that. And I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“I do,” Kylo says defensively. “I just—never mentioned it. And why did you erase my text?”

“Kylo,” Armitage says, in the same voice that he uses to lecture Kylo at work, the voice that sends shivers across Kylo’s skin. “That’s the eggplant emoji.”

“Isn’t that what those are?” Kylo gestures at the counter.

Armitage uses Kylo’s phone to point to the pan. “These are eggplants. They’re a fruit.” He leans in close to Kylo, fingertips pressing lightly into Kylo’s sternum before dragging down his chest and stomach to his jeans, where he cups Kylo’s cock lightly.

Kylo inhales sharply, immediately starting to get hard.

“This is _your_ eggplant,” Armitage continues, apparently oblivious to Kylo’s hardon, because he takes his hand off Kylo’s jeans, and grips the handle of the frying pan again. (It’s the same firm grip he uses on Kylo’s cock, and it’s _not_ helping.) “It’s the only usage that emoji gets. Don’t send her eggplants, peaches, glazed donuts, raindrops, or anything else that she hasn’t sent to you first. She probably knows this better than you do.”

Kylo’s face heats up. “Oh fuck,” he says. “She’s—ugh, that would have been bad.” He exhales heavily, turns to the sink to conceal his hardon, and puts the drain plug in, starts running water so he can soak the dishes before he washes them. “Thanks for catching that, Armitage.”

Armitage snorts. He reaches across the counter, pours something over the vegetables—fruit?—whatever, and then covers the pan.

Kylo taps out the remainder of his text to Rey while he lets the sink run— _Some kind of stir fry, I think._ —and then puts his phone back in his pocket. Squirts in some dish soap, lets it get all foamy, and then shuts the water off. He waits a moment, just to make sure his hardon is gone—which it is, mostly, and then turns to face Armitage again. “Hey,” he says.

“Mmm,” Armitage responds.

Kylo brings his hands up, lightly touches Armitage’s back with the tips of his fingers, and then takes his hands back to give Armitage space. “Are we good?” Kylo asks softly.

“Let’s see,” Armitage says, staring down at his stir fry. “You cornered me at work in order to have an extraordinarily awkward conversation while I was still sober, which I hate doing. Then I cornered you in the back room, and gave you a blowjob, which I like doing. I’m good, how are you?”

“But we never actually had the—wait, what?”

“Shall I repeat it back to you slower?” Armitage asks.

“No, wait,” Kylo says. “I thought—I didn’t know—you _like_ giving blowjobs?” He taps his front pocket where the list is—except he’s not even sure if any of his points _matter_ anymore, because it had never once occurred to him that Armitage could have _liked_ it.

Armitage shrugs his bare shoulder. “What’s not to like about them?” He takes the food off the stove, and reaches over to grab plates from the cupboards before dishing up two plates.

“I—don’t know,” Kylo says awkwardly. “I’ve never…”

“I know,” Armitage says gently, and he leans over, kisses Kylo lightly on the cheek. “I don’t mind, I’m only teasing.” He hesitates a moment. “I’m not—upset at you or anything. I’m just—”

“Just?”

“Talking is…look, there are some…complicating factors, things that you should know, and—” The expression on Armitage’s face changes suddenly, and he reaches into his back pocket, and takes out his cellphone. He looks _furious_ , his entire face changed in the space of seconds. “For _fuck’s_ sake,” he snaps, scowling at the display before swiping his thumb over it, and putting the phone to his ear. “I am _not_ available,” he snaps, accent immediately tightening into the crisp accent he uses at work. “ _No_.”

He hangs the phone up just as quickly as he had picked it up in the first place, and his hands are—shaking when he hangs up, and before Kylo has a chance to say anything, Armitage flicks his wrist and lets go of the phone, tossing it onto the counter.

Kylo turns and watches in horror as the phone skids across the counter, and lands right in the sink, disappearing immediately underneath the bubbles. He immediately plunges his hand into the too-hot water, grabs the phone and hauls it out, dripping, tries to turn it back on but the screen remains black—

Armitage is _laughing_. He’s staring at his phone, and he’s laughing. “That’s fucking brilliant,” he says, grinning maniacally _._ “Problem solved, holy shit. Amazing.”

“Your phone,” Kylo says. “I’ll stick it in rice, I’ll—”

“No fucking way,” Armitage says. “Drop it right back in there.”

“I—”

“Drop it,” Armitage says. “I’ll get a new one.” He runs his hand back through his hair, ruffling it completely out of its style. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, his accent broadening out again. “Go on, Kylo. Be good for me—drop it back in there.”

Kylo opens his hand, and the phone lands heavily back into the water.

“Good boy,” Armitage says.

Kylo feels it like a punch to the gut. He’s hard again, or maybe he never stopped _being_ hard, and Armitage is—Armitage is—

“New phone,” Armitage says in wonder. “New phone, new number. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good in my life.”

He doesn’t _look_ good—he looks a little hysterical. There are two bright red spots of colour high on his cheeks, his eyes are feverish, and his grin is so tight, pulled back so far that Kylo can see his teeth.

Kylo hesitantly reaches out, puts his hand on Armitage’s arm. “Are you—sure you’re okay?”

Armitage kisses Kylo’s jaw. “Never been better,” he breathes into Kylo’s ear, accent softened right back up to how it always is when he’s around Kylo. “Let’s eat some food, yeah?”

 

Armitage disappears into the bathroom immediately after he sets their plates on the bed, so Kylo takes a few minutes to rearrange the pillows so they have something to lean against. When Armitage emerges, he’s taken off the black apron, and switched into a shapeless long-sleeved shirt over his black jeans. The shirt is long, stretching down to mid-thigh. It might have been blue at one point, but is fairly faded now, the neck of the shirt stretched out and hanging loosely, exposing one of his collarbones. He goes into the kitchen, and emerges a moment later carrying a bottle of hot sauce, a half-full beer that must be his, and a full one, which he offers over to Kylo.

Kylo sits uneasily on the bed. He should probably—initiate a conversation about this? Say something? Comfort Armitage somehow? At the very least, Kylo should avoid staring at Armitage while he eats, even though Armitage is _fascinating_ right now—he’s actually humming something under his breath, sitting cross-legged on the bed with his beer leaning up against his crotch and his plate balanced on his feet, drizzling hot sauce onto his food.

Then Kylo takes a bite of the food, and all his plans fly right out the window.

“Holy shit,” Kylo says, mouth full. “This is amazing.”

Armitage looks up at him, startled, cheeks slightly pink.

“Seriously,” Kylo says, loading up his fork again. “This tastes so goddamn good. Where did you learn to cook?”

Armitage’s eyes go unfocused for a moment. “My mother,” he says, finally. “After a fashion.” He takes a forkful of food, winces, swallows. “It’s … complicated.”

Kylo finishes his plate in record time, and immediately breaks his resolution not to stare at Armitage while he eats. Armitage is taking forever, spending more time pushing the food around than anything else. He can see the flush from the hot sauce rising from below Armitage’s sweater up into his neck, and then from his neck into his face. Armitage finishes his own beer, and eyes Kylo’s—which Kylo immediately hands over, just to watch the way Armitage’s throat works as he swallows.

“So the food was really good,” Kylo says again when Armitage has put the beer down.

Armitage looks over at Kylo’s empty plate. “Yes, you’d mentioned.”

“Do you even like hot sauce?”

“I think the more appropriate question,” Armitage says, “is whether or not I like eggplant. Which I don’t.” He frowns down at the rest of his plate, pushes it over in Kylo’s direction. “The hot sauce did not improve things. You can have that if you want.”

Kylo nods, takes the plate, puts the first forkful in his mouth—and has to put serious effort into not spitting it out again. “Holy hell, Armitage,” he says, eyes watering. “What the fuck.” He’s not entirely certain how Armitage isn’t dead right now, because the food feels like it’s burning a layer of skin off the inside of Kylo’s mouth.

Armitage shrugs, leans back into the pillows, and dangles his hand down by the side of the bed, snapping his fingers lightly. “I can always get takeout later if I’m hungry. It’s good for you, though.”

There’s a soft thud from inside the walk-in closet, and then Millie comes out at a run, bumping her head against Armitage’s hand, and purring loud enough that Kylo can hear it.

“Well, okay,” Kylo says, putting his fork down and wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “But holy shit, Armitage.” He gets off the bed, careful not to jostle anything, picks up both plates and Armitage’s empty beer bottle. “What about those cinnamon buns you brought home from Resistance, do you still have any of those?”

Armitage raises his eyebrows, smiles at Kylo. “Sure, why don’t you bring one of those over. I may as well ingest my weight in sugar, I’m in a celebratory mood.” He lies back on the bed, continues to pet Millie.

Kylo wraps up the leftovers, puts them in the fridge. Rinses the plates, and carefully puts them into the sink, on top of Armitage’s phone. He considers digging it out, sneaking it into some rice—but then he imagines Armitage’s face if Armitage figures out he did that, and he leaves the phone right where it is.

The cinnamon buns are still neatly wrapped, on the corner of the counter behind the toaster. Kylo digs one out of the wrapping and sticks it on a plate, microwaves it for a few seconds to warm it up, and then washes the cinnamon off his fingers and carries it over to the bed.

Armitage is—oh, hells, Armitage is gorgeous, laid out on the bed with his eyes half-shut, hand dangling down and entangled in his cat’s fur.

“So,” Armitage says, lazily opening his eyes. “Are you going to stand there all night? Or are you going to feed me my cinnamon bun?”

Kylo’s chest clenches. “Your, ah. I.”

“I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself,” Armitage says. “So you can just set the cinnamon bun next to me, and I’ll sit up and eat it.”

“Or?” Kylo’s mouth is dry.

“Or you can sit down next to me,” Armitage continues. “Tear off little pieces. Put them in my mouth. I’ll chew and swallow. The whole deal. You know.”

“I do not know,” Kylo says, but he—wants to know. He really, really wants to know. He takes a deep breath, exhales. Sits down on the bed next to Armitage, and looks down at the cinnamon bun. How big a piece should he pull off? Does he need to actually—put it into Armitage’s mouth, or will Armitage do that? What if he drops it in Armitage’s mouth, and Armitage—chokes on it, or something awful like that?

He carefully tears off a small piece of cinnamon bun, and holds it out to Armitage, hovering his hand just above Armitage’s mouth.

Armitage lifts his head, and takes the piece out of Kylo’s fingers with his teeth, sucking on Kylo’s fingers as he pulls away.

“Oh,” Kylo says, stupidly. “That’s the appeal.”

“Yeah,” Armitage says. “ _Oh_.” He raises his eyebrows, looks pointedly over at the plate. “There’s a lot more sugar where that came from, sweetheart.”

“Oh,” Kylo repeats, and he looks down at the cinnamon bun. Armitage is right—the thing is drenched in sugar, so sweet that Kylo can feel his own teeth ache. His heart is pounding. It’s the first time Armitage has ever called him anything other than—anything other than his name, or _Ren_ , and he thought that being called _Kylo_ was about as good as it would get, but _sweetheart_ — _sweetheart_ is an entirely new situation, and it’s something very, very different from anything else, and Kylo wants it again. He wants _more_.

He tears another piece off the cinnamon bun, and holds it out to Armitage.

“Absolutely not,” Armitage says. He wriggles a little bit on the bed, burrowing down into the pillow that his head is on. “I lifted my head for the first one because you didn’t know what you were doing. Now you know how it works. You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Kylo lowers his fingers, presses the piece of cinnamon bun up against Armitage’s mouth. Armitage opens his mouth, licks out with his tongue, and snatches the food out of Kylo’s fingers.

“Fuck,” Kylo says softly. He tears off another piece of cinnamon bun, places it slightly beside Armitage’s mouth to see if Armitage will tip his head to take it.

Armitage licks the side of Kylo’s hand, but doesn’t move to take the food until Kylo puts it directly over his lips, and then Armitage opens his mouth, and sucks the piece of cinnamon bun right out of Kylo’s fingers. Armitage swallows, hard, and then tips his head up a little, licks the sugar off Kylo’s fingers. His tongue is—soft, and hot, and wet, and Kylo can’t help it—he leans over and kisses Armitage deeply, slides his fingers from Armitage’s mouth over to his neck.

“You taste like sugar,” Kylo breathes.

“I’m still hungry,” Armitage breathes back. “Some asshole made eggplant for supper. I hate eggplant.”

Kylo grins, and tears off another piece of cinnamon bun. “I dunno, I thought it was really sweet.”

Armitage’s mouth twists. “Ugh.”

Kylo sticks the food into his mouth before he has a chance to go any further into the sentence, and then tears off another piece so the moment Armitage swallows, Kylo is right there with another piece. This time, he presses his fingers inside Armitage’s mouth along with the cinnamon bun, and Armitage sucks hard on them, tongue licking between Kylo’s fingers, and sending a jolt of arousal up his spine.

“It’s good,” Armitage says. “Keep going.”

Kylo tears off another piece of cinnamon bun. This time he puts it between his teeth, and when Armitage lifts his head off the pillow, affronted, Kylo bends forward and kisses him, opens his mouth and uses his tongue to press the cinnamon bun inside Armitage’s mouth.

Armitage sighs, swallows and reaches up to grab the back of Kylo’s head, kisses him back harder.

“Shit,” Kylo says. “You gotta—you gotta eat, there’s still—I still have, like, half a cinnamon bun.”

“Well,” Armitage says, “you’d better keep going then.”

Kylo tears off another piece, feeds it to Armitage. Watches Armitage chew, and then swallow. The way his hair falls back from his face. The way he sucks—oh, hell, the way he sucks the sugar off Kylo’s fingers, laving Kylo’s fingertips with his tongue. The way he chews, deliberately and carefully, and then looks back at Kylo, opens his mouth and raises his eyebrows like he’s waiting.

Kylo feeds him the rest of the cinnamon bun, piece by piece. When he gets to the last piece, he hesitates, and then presses it in Armitage’s mouth, lets Armitage lick the sugar off his fingers.

“Mmm,” Armitage says. “That was perfect. What now?”

“That phone call,” Kylo blurts out, unsure how to address it.

Armitage closes his eyes again. “I’m very upset by it,” he says, flatly and without intonation.

Kylo forges forward, even though he thinks this is a mistake. “I mean, we can talk about it if you want to.”

“Why don’t you pick literally any other conversation topic?”

Kylo hesitates, and goes for it. “What we were talking about before,” he says. “About…you liking it.”

The corner of Armitage’s mouth twitches. “Yes?”

“What do you like about it?” Kylo asks. “Blowing me.” He winces the moment the words come out, because they’re crude and selfish, and he wants to—he wants to be better. He doesn’t want to break the rhythm of this. (He can still feel Armitage’s tongue sliding between his fingers.) “I mean, not, like, just me. But, like—the act. In general.”

“Well,” Armitage says.

“I don’t get it,” Kylo confesses. “Like, it feels fucking amazing for me, but I don’t…get it. Not really.”

Armitage smiles. “Kiss me while I think about it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, breathless. He sets the plate on the floor for Millicent, if she likes that kind of thing, and lies down on the bed.

Armitage rolls toward him, kisses him gently. Fucking hell, but it feels nice kissing like this—all open mouths and tongues and warmth. Armitage’s breath tastes like sugar, with a slight hint of beer and hot sauce underneath, and Kylo licks across Armitage’s teeth, nips at his bottom lip in that way that he thinks will make—

Armitage moans, rests his hand on Kylo’s bicep and strokes the bare skin with his thumb. “This is nice,” he says, spreading his fingers over Kylo’s arm. “Really nice. You sore?”

“Always,” Kylo says, looking down at the place where Armitage is rubbing his thumb back and forth. “Phasma’s working me hard.”

“It’s paying off,” Armitage says. He sounds…distracted, and he keeps just, like, _rubbing_ Kylo.

(Kylo is never going to stop going to the gym, if this is how Armitage is going to react to it.)

They keep kissing, faces close together and hands on each other’s chests and backs. Kylo’s breath is coming faster now. He hesitates, and then shifts a little, moves a little away from Armitage and then forward onto his own stomach, just so he can get some friction on his cock. It’s killing him not to move, not to just— _fuck_ , he doesn’t even know what would make this better, he just wants _more_ , he wants more than what he’s getting, he wants more than what Armitage is giving him, he wants—

“What do I like about blowjobs,” Armitage says, breathing against Kylo’s neck. “Hmmm.”

Kylo shudders, lust curling in his stomach, and cock hard.

“Having you above me, so tall. Your hands in my hair.”

“We’re the same height,” Kylo breathes.

“Not when I’m on my knees,” Armitage says. “You just…you _loom_ , and it’s glorious.”

It’s not the first time Kylo has been accused of looming—but it’s the first time it’s been described to him as a good thing, and Kylo’s head is spinning with how it feels to have an old insult turned on its head like this, how—how fucking arousing it is to listen to Armitage talking about how much he enjoys it, when Kylo had been assuming that all of this was a favour, it was just a favour and—and maybe it isn’t a favour, or it is a favour and Armitage doesn’t care—because if Armitage _likes_ it, legitimately _likes_ it—

“And your dick is …” Armitage says, trailing off and running his hand down Kylo’s arm and then from Kylo’s chest to his stomach, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

“I’ll take it off,” Kylo says hurriedly. He rolls onto his back, curls his shoulders forward up off the bed and yanks his shirt off over his head, tosses it on the floor.

When he looks over, Armitage is staring at his crotch, at the erection visible through Kylo’s jeans, and chewing on his lip.

“Fuck,” Armitage says softly. “ _Ky_ lo.”

“Tell me again,” Kylo breathes, turning back toward Armitage, flushing self-consciously. “About—blowjobs. In general. What you like.”

Armitage flicks his gaze back up to Kylo just briefly, smirking. “Oh, sorry, you don’t want specifics about _your_ very singular dick?”

“I, uh, I.”

“Because I have _things_ to say about your—specific—dick, Kylo.” Armitage stretches, briefly, exactly in the way that Millie does, arms stretched out above his head, and if Kylo looks down, he’ll probably see Armitage’s toes curl like Millie’s—except Kylo looks down, and he suddenly cannot care less about Armitage’s toes, because he’s looking at the crotch of Armitage’s pants. He can see—there’s no mistaking it, it’s just—it’s—

Armitage is hard. His erection is visible through his jeans.

Kylo’s mouth is dry, his heart pounding. It’s the first visual evidence he’s seen of Armitage’s arousal, and he can’t stop looking.

“Eyes up here,” Armitage says lightly, rubs his knuckles on Kylo’s chin.

“You’re …”

Armitage snorts. “Of course I am. I told you before—I like it. I like all of this.” He reaches back, winds his fingers through Kylo’s hair at the back of his neck. “Wait, is this an ongoing meltdown? You not thinking I liked it? Kylo, Kylo, Kylo. You think I didn’t like making out with you? Putting my mouth and my hands on your body? You think I don’t get anything out of sucking your cock, feeling you come in my hand?”

“I didn’t know,” Kylo says. He feels dizzy with it, with the sheer eroticism of what Armitage is saying, and how he’s saying it. “And I wasn’t _melting_. I just, you know.”

Armitage raises his eyebrow.

“That whole, like, breathy moan thing could have been fake,” Kylo mutters. “I don’t know, I’ve never done this. I just—I thought it was fake?”

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Armitage scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You think I’d _choose_ to sound like that during sex? Fuck me, it’s as undignified as hell to be—moaning like someone out of a terrible porno.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Kylo mutters, the words slipping out before he’s had a chance to think them through.

Armitage’s eyes widen. “Please repeat that sentence, I’m not sure I caught it.”

Kylo turns his face into the pillow. “No, thank you,” he says into the cotton. “Not gonna.”

“We,” Armitage says into Kylo’s ear as he moves his hand down Kylo’s bare back. “Are going.” He tugs at Kylo’s belt loops. “To have.” Slides his hand into the back of Kylo’s pants, over his boxers. “That discussion.” He cups Kylo’s ass gently in his hand. “But not now. Now is for celebrating,” he says, and then he grabs Kylo’s ass and pulls, pressing their hips together for the first time.

“Oh fuck,” Kylo groans, his entire body too hot and too small to contain everything all at once. “ _Armitage_ , fuck.”

When they’re this close, Kylo can feel everything, absolutely everything—Armitage’s dick pressed up against his own, hard and solid, direct pressure against his own. Armitage’s hands grabbing at the meat of his ass, the delicious friction when Armitage pulls in again, rocking their erections together.

“Shitshit _shitshit_ ,” Kylo slurs. “Armitage, I don’t—I don’t want to come like this?”

“That sounded like a question, Kylo,” Armitage says. “Do you, or don’t you? I mean, you’re young. You’ll just get it up again.” He rocks against Kylo again, and Kylo gasps.

“Okay, fine, fine, I’ll,” Kylo says, tongue thick and words mashing into each other. “I’ll come like this, I just—it’s embarrassing but holy fuck, Armitage.”

“Oh, please,” Armitage says softly, and he presses his lips to Kylo’s jaw. “As if you haven’t been washing an extra three or four pairs of jeans a week since we started fucking.”

Kylo groans, thinking about it—thinking about what they’ve _done_ , thinking of yesterday being for _Armitage’s_ benefit rather than his, thinking of how it really does it for him, just knowing that Armitage _knows_ about Kylo, knows everything there is to know and still—still somehow _likes_ it, likes _him_. Kylo is blushing so hard now he’s certain that he’s gone from red straight to purple. “Ahhh, fuck, Armitage. I can’t—you’re so. Armitage.”

“You started it,” Armitage breathes. He grinds up against Kylo again. “Now, are you gonna roll up on top of me and get yourself off, or not?”

Kylo’s moving before he’s even fully processed the sentence, up above Armitage now the same way he was for his first blowjob, body propped against Armitage’s except now Armitage’s face is right there, Kylo can—Kylo can lean down to kiss him, if he wants, Kylo can—can nibble at his lips, if he wants, can lave his tongue over Armitage’s smooth-shaved cheeks.

“Come on,” Armitage says, wriggling underneath him. “Don’t hover your dick three feet above mine, you’ll never get off that way. Grind on me, Kylo.”

Kylo is going to—he’s going to kiss Armitage, he’s going to kiss him gently and grind against him nicely, he’s going to pay attention to what he’s doing and be _good_ about it—but the moment he lowers his crotch to Armitage’s, the moment he sees the way Armitage’s eyelashes flutter, just slightly, when Kylo grinds their dicks together—Kylo loses all ability to think logically about what he’s doing, all ability to concentrate on making this _good_ for Armitage, and just focuses on getting himself off, shifting around until he’s able to get the exact right amount of friction, grinding his dick down against Armitage, Armitage shifting and breathing heavily underneath him, and Kylo can last, he can last long enough to get Armitage off too, he can—

Armitage’s heels come up and cross on Kylo’s back, pulling Kylo down into him with his legs, and that’s it for Kylo—he’s coming, head ducked down between Armitage’s shoulder and his neck so that he can hide his face as he gasps and shudders through it, vision blurring and cock spasming, Armitage’s heels pressed into his back, Armitage’s hands on his shoulders, Armitage’s tongue lapping at his ear just like that very first time.

“Shiiiiiiiit,” Kylo says, trying to get control of his breathing, his pulse, his entire fucking body. He feels shaky as hell.

“You swear a lot,” Armitage says. “It’s lovely, I like it.”

Kylo blinks to clear his vision, slumps down on Armitage. “Can I—for you—do something?” It’s not a sentence, he doesn’t think—all the right words, but none of the right order, somehow.

“Sure,” says Armitage. “You can let me unbuckle those pants, for one.”

Kylo rolls onto his back, and watches as Armitage unbuckles Kylo’s belt, deftly manoeuvring it out of the belt loops, and then undoes Kylo’s button, pulls down his zipper, spreads both sides of his pants apart and just _stares_.

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut.

‘Whaaaaaat,” Armitage drawls, slow and soft. “Are you self-conscious again?”

“Yes,” Kylo mutters. “It’s all—my boxers are soaked.”

“Yes,” Armitage purrs. “Yes, they are.”

There’s pressure on Kylo’s crotch, and when he opens his eyes, he sees that Armitage has his hand splayed over Kylo’s boxers, pressing his palm into the wetness, into Kylo’s slowly softening dick. Armitage is chewing at his lower lip again, and his eyes are half-lidded, face flushed, red-gold hair falling forward over his forehead.

“I like _this_ ,” Armitage says, sitting back on his heels, and running his fingers along the wetness, and then bringing them to his mouth to lick at them before bending over, mouthing at the base of Kylo’s dick through his boxers before pulling away, sitting back on his heels.

Kylo shudders, dick still soft but entire body breaking out in goosebumps, face hot. “I should shower,” Kylo says. “Before it dries. Do you want—?”

“I don’t want for anything,” Armitage says, voice low.

“Let me—”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Armitage says primly. “You don’t have enough time.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not before that dries, anyway,” he adds quickly. “Like you said.” He leans forward and kisses Kylo lightly on the cheek. “Go have your shower—I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Kylo’s hands are shaking when he pushes his pants and his boxers off in the bathroom. He tosses the boxers in the sink, runs some water over them, and turns on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up before he steps in. He looks at himself in the mirror—his face is flushed, hair hanging falling forward around it, and his eyes still look unfocused. He checks the bathroom counter for a ponytail holder, and doesn’t find anything, opens up the cupboard under the sink and crouches down.

It’s a little hard to find anything because Armitage, for some reason, has jammed his unopened boxes from his online shopping adventure down there. Kylo picks up the boxes one by one—he’s still weirded out by how heavy they are, for the size of them—and eventually finds a couple of loose hair ties that Rey must have left over at one point, jammed into the far corner of the cupboard. He puts everything back where he’d found it, stands up, and finger-combs his hair into some semblance of a ponytail before fastening it low on the back of his neck.

When Kylo steps into the shower, he actually braces himself on the wall for a moment to breathe. He thought—he thought this was going to simmer, or stop happening, but he still can’t breathe around Armitage, still can’t get his head on straight. Every time Armitage touches him, he feels like he’s going to perish, like his heart will stop in his chest, and he thought it would be better once they lived together, thought he would see the awful irritating things about Armitage and that would kill the crush that he’s carried secretly for years, but it’s just getting worse, it’s getting so much worse because _he doesn’t even hate Armitage’s flaws_. He’s not unaware of them—Armitage is selfish and cranky with a tendency to get catty, refuses to share anything about himself, and they _still_ haven’t had that conversation that Kylo was trying to have yesterday, and Kylo just—he just doesn’t give a shit. It doesn’t change anything.

“Fuck,” Kylo mutters.

He faces the spray, lets the hot water pound down on his face so that it hides his blush, lets his skin overheat, and his vision blur over. He fumbles for his shower gel without looking, squeezes some of it into his hand, and turns away from the spray to start soaping his chest, wincing as every muscle he has protests being touched. He soaps all the way down his abs and pays special attention to scrubbing his pubes, cleaning the come out of them, washes under his dick and behind his balls, pulls his foreskin back and gently washes that too, rinsing it off. By the time he’s done cleaning himself, he’s half-hard again, and he gently runs his fingers along the length of his dick, seeing how sensitive he—

“Keep doing that,” Armitage says.

Kylo startles, nearly slipping in the shower. “What the hell?” he asks, and then yanks the shower curtain aside so that Armitage’s shadow resolves into his actual body. “What the _hell_ , Armitage?”

Armitage is perched on the bathroom counter, kicking his heels lightly against the cupboard, and watching Kylo intently. His sweater is cocked to the side, slipping off the shoulder closest to Kylo. “I said what I said.”

“You can’t just …”

Armitage shrugs one shoulder carelessly. “I could leave.”

Kylo’s hand is still on his dick. He doesn’t know whether he should take it off, put his hands behind his back, or whether he should keep his hand exactly where it is. Experimentally, he draws his fingers down his dick again, and watches the way Armitage chews on his own lip. “Or?” he asks.

“Or,” Armitage says, visibly swallowing. “You could do that for a bit. Show me how you like it. And I could—I could tell you about what I’m gonna do to you with my mouth. What I _like_ doing to you with my mouth.”

Kylo closes his eyes. It’s been a while since he’s done this because he hasn’t needed to, because Armitage has been getting him off every time Kylo’s felt like it, and he doesn’t see what the draw for this is for Armitage—but the comfortable familiarity of Kylo’s own hand on his dick is kind of nice, a return to something that he’s familiar with.

“I’m going to suck you off,” Armitage says suddenly, and Kylo opens his eyes, blinks at him.

Armitage isn’t sitting on the counter anymore. He’s standing right next to the shower, slightly damp from the spray because neither of them actually moved the shower curtain back after Kylo had moved it the first time, and Armitage’s pants—his pants are off, somehow, his feet bare. He’s standing in the puddle of water that’s slowly collecting on the tiles, his too-long shirt hanging down to the middle of his thighs, sleeves hanging an inch or two past his wrists.

“I’m going to kiss your hip,” Armitage says, voice a little lower than usual. “Right—right there, where you’ve got that mole, I’m going to kiss from there all the way across your stomach to your other hip, I’m going to drag my tongue across your skin, run my fingers down your treasure trail—”

Kylo flushes, adjusts his balls. He’s never been—watched like this before, _appreciated_ like this before, and it’s really nice.

“I’m going to run my tongue the entire length of you, and holy fuck, it’s such a big … distance, you’re so nice and long and thick.” Armitage’s eyes are slightly unfocused. He’s staring at Kylo’s dick, and fidgeting with them hem of his sweater, stretching and pulling it between his hands.

Kylo tightens his grip, drags his hand up and down his cock. He’s fully hard now and he’s definitely going to be able to come again, can already feel his second orgasm creeping up on him, balls starting to tighten and arousal pooling in his gut, he’s getting so close and Armitage is _right there_ , Armitage is _seeing him naked_ , Armitage is—

“Fuck it,” Armitage mutters, and lets go of his sweater, runs his hand through his hair, and then climbs into the tub, sweater instantly soaked by the water.

“What are you—”

“Kylo,” Armitage breathes, and he does exactly as he’d said he would—kisses Kylo’s hip, drags his tongue across Kylo’s stomach, sucks a kiss into his other hip, and then reaches up with one delicate hand and pulls Kylo’s stilled hand away from his cock, intertwines his fingers with Kylo’s, and then drags his tongue along Kylo’s dick, takes it in his mouth, and then descends onto it.

Kylo feels his cock going down the back of Armitage’s throat, pushing against his soft palate. Armitage doesn’t struggle or protest or anything, just breathes out heavily through his nose and leans in, tongue flexing against Kylo’s dick.

“I’m so close,” Kylo says, voice strangled.

Armitage reaches for Kylo’s other hand, takes him by the wrist, and puts Kylo’s hand on top of his own head.

“Hand … in hair?” Kylo says, feeling sex-drunk and stupid.

Armitage nods as much as he can around Kylo’s dick, does something with his tongue—

Kylo weaves his hand into Armitage’s wet hair, looks down at him. He looks so small this way, just like he’d said earlier—so much shorter than Kylo, so much more slender. His long-sleeved shirt is soaking wet now, clinging to his body and he’s so much—narrower and smaller than what Kylo is, for all that he’s a couple of years older—

Armitage reaches up to Kylo’s wrist again, pulls it back and forth a little. Kylo reflexively clenches his hand, tightens it in Armitage’s hair, and Armitage—fuck, Armitage moans loudly around Kylo’s cock, starts sucking it in earnest, pulling back and forth, drool coming from the corners of his mouth like he can’t stop it from happening, and—

Kylo’s orgasm comes so quickly that he doesn’t have time to warn Armitage, can’t do a damn thing except gasp and come, helplessly, down Armitage’s throat.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, his words coming out all slurred. “Sorry, sorry.”

“No, no,” Armitage says, pulling away. His voice is raw. “Don’t—don’t apologize, alright?” He looks up, swiping his hair out of his eyes, and frowns away from the shower spray as the water hits him in the face.

“Oh, shit,” Kylo says. He reaches behind himself and shakily turns the water off.

The silence in the bathroom after is oppressive. Kylo is focusing all his attention on staying upright, because if he slips in the wet tub, he’ll crush Armitage underneath him. Armitage, for his part, is kneeling on the floor of the shower, sitting back on his heels, his soaking-wet sweater clinging to every bit of his body, including his cock, which is still hard—

“Hey, I,” Kylo says. “You’re. I’d like to. Get you off, Armitage, can I please?”

“No, thank you,” Armitage says. “I’ll wait.” He leans forward, presses a kiss to Kylo’s hip, and reaches out for the tile wall, touching one of the tiles, and then walking his fingers down from the tile he’s touching to the lip of the tub. He rises gracefully even though he looks like he’s been caught in a rainstorm. “Would you mind bringing me another sweater? This one is soaked.”

“Um, sure,” Kylo says. He steps carefully out of the tub, tosses one of his towels down onto the floor to cover the mess they’ve left, and then wraps another towel around his waist and goes into the walk-in closet. All of Hux’s clothes are neatly hung and organized—white dress shirts on the far left, the dress shirts becoming more and more casual as they go—there’s a red lumberjack shirt right before the transition to t-shirts—and Kylo picks through them until he finds another shapeless long-sleeved sweater, similar to the one Armitage had been wearing.

By the time he comes back into the bathroom, Armitage is facing away from Kylo, carefully wringing the excess water out of his sweater. He holds his hand out for the fresh sweater, and Kylo hands it over to him, turns away while Armitage switches shirts and then stays there until Armitage has pulled his pants back on too. “Thank you,” Armitage says. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” Kylo says.

“Feeling good?” Armitage asks.

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “Yeah, I am.” He swallows. “Are you—are you sure you’re okay?”

Armitage smiles at him, leans in for a kiss. “I’m just fine,” he murmurs against Kylo’s lips. “Don’t worry about me, okay? Patience. I’ll have time later—there’s not enough of it now.”

“We have all the time in the world,” Kylo says.

“We don’t, actually,” Armitage says. “But nice try, sweetheart.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why are eggplants a fruit? Seriously, this fucked me up. (Apparently it's because they have seeds, but I still don't like it.)
> 
> Also, I could write an entire blog post about Armitage and cooking, but *sigh* I decided to save that for the sequel. That's right--I'll be swapping DTD over into a series as soon as I think of a good series name. I accidentally another longfic. I just...should accept that this is the person I am, tbh.
> 
> The blog post for this week's chapter is [over here!](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/05/19/dtd-chapter-eleven-breakdown/) It discusses some ethical stuff that didn't actually get discussed in this chapter, language use in deep third POV, and a shitty thing I did to Armitage for a good cause (ie, getting him to be less of a grumpy fuck).


	12. mistakes were made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage knows he fucked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to deadsy, who beta'd the shit out of this for me.

Armitage knows he fucked up.

The grinding was over-the-top to begin with, way further than he’d intended to go with Kylo in the first place, and then he’d been so fucking _hard_ from Kylo grinding into him, panting into Armitage’s ear as he came, that Armitage couldn’t just—couldn’t just sit on the bed like a regular person, wait for his hardon to go away. No, he had to sneak into the bathroom like a predatory asshole, and that was a mistake, it was a _fucking mistake_ —

So it’s not like Armitage isn’t aware that he fucked up.

It’s just that he’s underestimated the severity of it.

 

Kylo barnacles onto him that night, pulls Armitage in close, wraps his arms possessively around Armitage’s chest. He shifts around, his rough feet rubbing against Armitage’s until he clumsily intertwines their legs together, breathing softly into Armitage’s ear. Armitage should hate it, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t hate it at all.

Kylo falls asleep easily, but Armitage lies there, hard and aching and trying to convince himself that it’s a waste of his time to wake Kylo up, ask Kylo if he wants to do something about it. Kylo is—Kylo is hot-blooded and passionate and laser-focused on getting himself off, and Armitage—

He pulls Kylo’s hand harder into his chest, wraps his hand around two of Kylo’s thick fingers.

(Armitage can’t stop himself from imagining them up his ass.)

He never should have said _yes_.

He can’t _stop_ saying _yes_.

Armitage blinks rapidly, squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to sleep.

It doesn’t come easily.

 

Armitage is just going to never mention it again. It seems like a reasonable strategy. Everybody except Kylo can see that Armitage had fucked up badly by allowing any of what had happened earlier. It would have been kinder to let Kylo wonder if Armitage was into him or not, rather than grinding their cocks together and proving that he is, he _is_.

Armitage squeezes his eyes shut. Even just thinking about it is making his cock twitch, and he doesn’t have _time_ for anything. He feels around for the bathroom tap, cranks the cold water on, and flicks it up into his face. He can’t—he can’t go back out there until he can stop fucking _blushing_ , and that means that he’ll have to stop thinking about Kylo, about how fucking good Kylo’s hard dick feels against his own, and how amazing it felt to bend down and—

No. There’s no time.

He splashes more cold water on his face, runs gel through his hair. Combs it back the way he likes it, fixes it down with more gel so it stays. He washes his hands, puts in his contacts, and blinks, waits for his vision to adjust. Puts on his slacks, his black leather belt, a light blue button-up shirt, ironed to perfection. He has to go into campus today—midterms for the summer session art history class are ready for marking, and he needs to look good in case he runs into the dean, because there are already rumours the dean wasn’t particularly impressed with Armitage’s decision to defer his thesis exhibition. It’s important that Armitage looks put together. Like everything is under control.

He fixes his cuffs, checks his hair again. Rinses his mouth with mouthwash.

(He’s stalling.)

Armitage looks at himself in the mirror, realizes he’s chewing on his fucking lip again, and it’s red and chapped. He slathers some of that foul lip moisturizer he keeps on it just so that he remembers to stop—fucking—chewing—his—lip and then wipes it off on the back of his hand once he realizes that his lips are shining, because he can’t bear the way Kylo will look at him if his lips are shining when he leaves the bathroom.

Armitage crouches down and checks the bathroom cabinet to make sure his parcels are still there, and they are, all three of them. He rests his hand on the cardboard. _The end of the week,_ he thinks. He can hold on until the end of the week.

 

Kylo should be asleep, or on campus, or doing anything other than what he’s doing, which is lying sprawled out on the bed in his fucking sweatpants and a too-big tank top, blatantly ignoring the textbooks spread out in front of him and the pen he’s holding in his right hand in order to stare at Armitage.

“I’m heading to campus,” Armitage says.

“Yeah,” Kylo says. He’s still staring. “Yeah, okay. I’m, uh, not. Till later.”

“Alright.” Armitage swallows. “I can—cook again, tonight, if you’re gonna be home for supper.” He doesn’t know why he offered that. He certainly hadn’t intended to.

Kylo’s entire face brightens up. “That would be awesome! Have a good day on campus, maybe we can hang out tonight after supper?”

“Sure,” Armitage says. “Yeah. Sure.” He needs to stop.

He’s in this way too far.

(He doesn’t want to correct any of his own mistakes.)

 

There’s a thump on the bathroom door.

“I’m in the bath, Millie,” he says irritably. “I can’t open the door for you.”

“It’s just me,” Kylo says, opening the door a crack. “Can I come in?”

Armitage sighs, because of course this is the result of his shitty decisions the day before. Of course he should have corrected his mistakes. Of course Kylo thinks it’s okay to ask now. “Sure, Kylo.”

Kylo comes in, holding two mugs. He approaches, and offers one of them to Armitage. “I like the pastel bubbles,” he says. “I didn’t know bubble bath did that.”

Armitage can feel his face heating up. “It’s special order,” he mutters. He takes the extended mug, just because it’s there, wraps his hands around it, and inhales.

It’s tarine tea, and it’s steeped perfectly—just the way Kylo has been doing it for months, the persistent fucker.

He thinks for a moment that Kylo will leave, let Armitage bathe in peace—but Kylo just closes the bathroom door and sits down against it. The angle is odd—because of the bathroom counter, all Armitage can see is Kylo’s ridiculously long legs and those thick thighs of his, but he can’t actually see Kylo’s face.

“How was your day?” Kylo asks.

Armitage shrugs, before realizing Kylo can’t see it. “Alright. Resistance was busy. Poe was being a wanker, as usual. They’ve got some—thing over at that industrial place they like to call a venue.”

“Oh yeah,” Kylo says. “The warehouse.”

Armitage makes a face. “I wish corporate wouldn’t let them advertise that in the store.”

“I dunno,” Kylo says. “It’s art, you know? And the posters are really tasteful.”

_Poe wouldn’t know art if it whacked him on the ass_ , Armitage thinks, and he immediately bites down on his lip to suppress an entirely inappropriate giggle. “I suppose.”

“How’s marking going?” Kylo asks after a moment, pulling one of his knees into his chest. Armitage can see his hands now when he looks over, those thick lovely fingers wrapped around his ankle.

(Armitage doesn’t think he’s ever stopped wanting Kylo for an instant, not even once.)

“First years are fucking idiots,” he says. “I don’t think half of them even studied for this.”

“I mean, that’s part of learning, isn’t it?” Kylo asks. “I’m sure my first-year stuff was garbage too.”

“You’re smart, there’s no way it was as bad as this.”

Silence for a moment.

“I mean, okay,” Kylo says, and Armitage doesn’t need to be able to see his face to know that Kylo’s cheeks will be pink, his ears bright red. “But I’m sure they’re trying hard.”

“You wouldn’t say that,” Armitage says, sinking down a little lower into his bath, “if you saw these papers.”

“Give them the benefit of the doubt,” Kylo offers. “They’re trying their best, you know?”

“Do you honestly believe that about people?” Armitage asks.

“Yeah,” Kylo says without hesitation. “Yeah, I do.”

 

(Armitage lies on the floor of his studio, stares up at Starkiller. He wishes he could shut his eyes, open them, and everything would be fixed. But it isn’t. It just isn’t.)

 

Armitage is having a leisurely shower, curling his hand around his cock, thinking about nothing in particular except the way it feels to slide his hand back and forth on his half-hard cock, stopping every couple of minutes when he gets about three-quarters of the way there, just to let it soften up again so he can keep going. He has time now—not enough, not enough to do it really right, but enough to at least get started with it, give him something to—

There’s a knock at the bathroom door.

Armitage hisses his breath out, turns away from the door and takes his hand off his cock, pumps shampoo into his other hand and hurriedly puts it in his hair. “Yeah?” A gob of shampoo slides down the back of his neck, and he shudders.

The door cracks open. “Can I come in?” Kylo asks.

Armitage doesn’t have the heart to turn him down. He was the one who set the precedent. It’s only right that he suffer for it—and given the option between Kylo in the other room, and Kylo in the same room as him, Armitage would pick the same room every fucking time.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “What’s going on, Kylo?”

“It’s this fucking paper,” Kylo mutters, slouching in and parking himself on the bathroom counter, just the same as Armitage had when he’d snuck in on Kylo a few days prior—

—and Armitage needs to not think about that now because Kylo is right there, and he’s fucking _massive_ perched on the counter like that, his shoulders getting broader by the day. His hoodie is new, black instead of grey, and Armitage wonders idly if he grew out of the last one. “Philosophy? I thought you and I worked that one out the other day, with the five stages of...” He flicks his hand vaguely.

“Yeah,” Kylo says, brightening. “That one’s going really well.” He runs his hand back through his hair, and Armitage watches the engagement ring on his hand like there’s a tracking device on it. “But it’s the religious studies class. I can’t get my thesis sorted, it’s all over the place and it’s only a five thousand word paper, so, like, it’s not like I have space to do anything actually good with it, you know?”

Armitage sighs, goes back to scrubbing his hair. “You’ll just have to chop it smaller until it fits.”

“I have so much good stuff, though,” Kylo sighs.

“Nobody cares about that,” Armitage says flatly. “Nobody cares about the things you squirrel away in your notebook, or the things you hide in your—head, or the—look, it just doesn’t matter, Kylo. Nobody else cares, and you shouldn’t either. You just—you cut off the pieces that don’t fit, and you keep what you need to keep where you need to keep it, and you don’t—you don’t show it to anyone else. It’s a five thousand word essay, Kylo. There isn’t room for a fifty thousand word treatise.” He looks down. His cock is soft, and he can—he can turn toward Kylo a little now. He’ll still be mostly hidden by the shower curtain.

It’s fine.

Kylo peers through the shower curtain at him. “You realize it’s contextual, right? It’s just an essay.”

“Hmm?” Armitage turns and tips his head back into the spray, rinses out the shampoo.

“It’s, uh,” Kylo says, faltering almost immediately. “The length thing. Is. It’s.”

“The requirements are the requirements,” Armitage says, slicking his hair back from his head. He balances on one foot, reaches back with the other to turn the shower off. “It doesn’t matter if you have fifty thousand words of thoughts. There’s only room for five. You have to pare it down.”

“You have a nice ass,” Kylo blurts. And then, immediately after. “Fuck, sorry, that was—I mean. Context. The context is important. I just think.” He makes an exasperated noise, puts his head in his hands. “I swear I’m smarter than this,” he mutters.

Armitage laughs, reaches for his towel, and wraps it around himself. “Fuck off so I can get dressed, yeah?”

“Ugh,” Kylo says. “Yeah, sure, fine, I’m gonna go feed your cat.”

 

(Armitage doesn’t even bother going to the studio, fuck it. He can lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling and do jackshit from home just as easily as he can do it from the studio, and at least this way he can hear Millie moving around in the apartment, even if the little shit won’t lower herself to come near him. _He’s_ not the one with the catnip, so apparently his presence in this apartment doesn’t matter anymore.)

 

Armitage set a precedent. A number of precedents. They’re all bad, they’re all fucking bad.

Kylo is taking guidance from Armitage.

Armitage has fucked up.

The entire week is awful. Every time Armitage turns around, Kylo is pressing him against the walls to make out with him. “Can I,” he murmurs into Armitage’s ear. “Lemme feel you,” he slurs. “I wanna—I wanna rub off on you, can I—”

And Armitage just keeps fucking up. He keeps saying _yes_. He can’t _not_ say yes, because it feels so fucking good to actually be kissed the _exact_ way he’s taught Kylo to kiss, like Kylo is following every single one of his specifications and being so fucking _careful_ about the entire thing, and it won’t last. It can’t last.

The first time Armitage responds with a drawled “yeah, go ahead, baby,” Kylo babbles such relief and joy into his ear that Armitage doesn’t even have a chance to regret what he’s said. And he figures Kylo will get bored. It’s just grinding. It’s just frottage. It’s not a big deal.

Except it is, for Kylo. It’s a very big deal.

And it’s making things very, very difficult for Armitage.

The week has just barely gotten started.

 

By Wednesday, Armitage has fucking had it.

“This is a mistake,” he mutters.

Kylo immediately stills. “Sorry, I—”

“Don’t stop,” Armitage says softly, looking away.

“Are you—”

“ _Please_ don’t stop,” Armitage says. He can’t look Kylo in the face, just in case this is it, this is the beginning of the incompatibilities, the beginning of the end, the beginning of everything falling apart—

Kylo ruts into him, pushing Armitage a little harder into the wall, and grinding his hard cock up against Armitage’s stomach. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve got one eye on the pasta, I swear, it’s fine, just—oh, fuck, oh, fuck you feel amazing, oh my god, I love how—I love how I can feel you get hard against me, that’s—oh, fucking hell, Armitage, _Armitage_.”

Armitage bites his lip while Kylo comes against him, feels the wetness soak through Kylo’s pants into his own, his cock throbbing with his own desire to get off, which he will, just—just not quite yet, because he can’t handle—he can’t—he has to— _fuck,_ everything about this is…complicated.

He’s not going to make it until the end of the week. He’s going to give in, and let Kylo get him off, and it’ll be subpar and substandard and Armitage will hate himself the same way he always hates himself when he lets other people do what they want, because other people doing what they want is _never_ what Armitage wants, and he thinks he’ll actually—he’ll actually break when this thing with Kylo goes bad, so—not today. Just. Just not today, let it be not today. Let him have—more _time_ , somehow, a chance to figure out how he can make this work.

(The pasta is overcooked, but Kylo is blissed out, snuggling against Armitage’s side and letting Armitage feed him bits and pieces of supper even though fettuccine alfredo is _definitely_ not within Kylo’s macros, and it—it still tastes good, somehow, when Kylo kisses the extra sauce off Armitage’s lips, and Armitage hates every fucking second of it, because he can see the end of it coming. He’ll get drunk. He’ll say something he means. And that’s it, that’s all, that’s the end.)

 

“Wait, wait.” Kylo says. “You just want—to watch me?”

It’s Thursday, and Armitage has finished grading papers, and he’s a little—well, he’s more than a little drunk. They’re at Bala-Tik’s, and they’re both stuffed full of food and beer, and Armitage’s head is spinning a bit because it’s the first thing he’s eaten all day, and he’s had a couple of beers, and probably he shouldn’t be saying stupid shit like this—but it’s been an entire week of Kylo shoving him up against the wall and grinding on him, an entire week of sticking his hand down Kylo’s pants whenever he can, and touching that massive fucking cock, an entire week of deepthroating Kylo and swallowing his come, petting Kylo’s sweat-damp hair afterward, listening to all the ridiculousness that falls out of Kylo’s mouth when he’s sex-drunk. (And it’s fucking ridiculous, affection and nonsense and all kinds of things that Kylo should save for his real boyfriend, the one he’ll have after Armitage.)

“Yeah,” Armitage says, like the fucking idiot he is. “I want to watch you. I wanna see—what you do.”

Kylo sets down his beer, leans forward, slightly unsteadily. “You saw it in the shower,” he says in a stage-whisper. “I touch my dick. That’s it, Armitage.”

“Oh my god,” Armitage says. “Come the fuck on, Kylo. Everybody does it differently.”

“Do they?” Kylo asks. “Like, is that a thing? I thought you just kind of—”

Armitage stands up, braces himself on the table, gestures to Kylo’s beer. “Drink up, we’re going home,” he says, a little unsteadily. “We’re going home.”

 

Armitage takes Kylo home, makes out with him pressed up against the door, and then up against the wall, and then, finally, sits down on the bed, pulling Kylo over closer by his beltloops.

“You still good for it, sweetheart?” Armitage asks.

“Yeah,” Kylo says, voice unsteady and cheeks pink. “Yeah, I—fucking _hell_ , Armitage.”

Armitage presses his face forward, nuzzles into Kylo’s crotch. He can feel the heat of him even through his pants, that iron-hard line of his cock shoving at the front of his jeans, and it feels fucking _good_ pressing up against Armitage’s face.

(He can feel himself getting harder. He’s been waiting so long now that he’s nearly as hair-trigger as Kylo, and there will be time soon, _soon_ , time for everything he wants exactly how he wants it, no risk of it getting ruined, no risk of—)

“Fuck,” Kylo breathes.

Armitage looks up, and Kylo is watching him, hands woven into his own hair, pulling it back from his face. “Yeah?”

“You’re gorgeous,” Kylo says. “I just—wow.”

Armitage shuts his eyes, rests his forehead against Kylo’s stomach a moment. “It’s not about me,” he says softly.

“I want it to be,” Kylo says insistently. “Just once, let me do what you want.”

“I want that dick in my mouth,” Armitage says without thinking.

Kylo side-eyes him. “What?”

“You heard me,” Armitage responds. He crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re the one who offered, don’t get all—petty about it now that I didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear.”

“Hey,” Kylo says, putting his hand on the side of Armitage’s face and bending down to rest his forehead on top of Armitage’s head.

(It’s the hand with the engagement ring on it, and Armitage can feel the cool silicone against his cheek.)

Armitage squirms a little underneath him, but doesn’t make a serious attempt to move away.

“You can have what you want,” Kylo whispers to him. “Alright? You can have what you want.”

Armitage chews his lip, and waits.

Kylo unzips his pants.

 

When Armitage wakes up on Friday morning, he can still taste Kylo’s come in the back of his mouth. Kylo’s arm is across his chest, and Kylo’s sleeping without a shirt on, and Armitage is—fuck, Armitage is hard, and he _wants_ , and he doesn’t feel like waiting for it—but yet, he lies there. He lies there, under Kylo’s arm, while Kylo sleeps. Closes his eyes when Kylo’s alarm goes off, flutters his lashes a bit like he’s starting to wake up.

“Shit,” Kylo murmurs beside him. “I’ve got class.”

“Mmm,” Armitage says. “You’d better go, babe.”

Kylo groans next to him. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says. “That sounds good.” Kylo leans over, kisses him quickly. His mouth is stale and his lips are dry. “I’ll see you for supper, yeah? Let me take you out tonight, celebrate the weekend?”

“Of course,” Armitage says, and he closes his eyes, feigns sleep while Kylo gets out of bed, showers, gets dressed. Lets his hand subtly creep under the covers to his dick—shouldn’t be touching himself while Kylo is still here, but he’s quiet, he’s quiet, and he’s not _actually_ going to do anything, he’s just—going through the motions, tugging lightly on his balls, running his fingers along the length of his cock, grinding his teeth together so that he doesn’t inadvertently shiver.

“Have a good day,” Kylo whispers.

It’s only through sheer skill that Armitage doesn’t flinch, just turns, sleepily, toward Kylo’s voice. “You too,” he murmurs, and then he feels Kylo’s lips pressing against his for just a moment, and it’s so fucking nice, it’s so nice. He tightens his hand on his cock, under the covers, waits until he hears Kylo leave the apartment, shutting the door behind him. Counts to one hundred, just to be sure.

(Considers calling Kylo back—but what kind of person would Armitage be if he asked for that? He can’t talk things out, he wouldn’t be able to say what he wanted in words anyway. Kylo is happy with what they have right now.)

“Mmmmrowr?” Millicent asks from beside him.

“Shhhhh,” Armitage says. “I’m waiting.” He rolls onto his back, drags his hand up his cock and up onto his chest. Plays with his nipples until they perk up under his fingers, until his breath is coming in short pants and his cock is twitching—and then presses his palms down, hard, and forces his breathing to slow, waits for his cock to wilt back until it’s resting against his stomach again—still engorged, but softening. He pulls back the covers and gets out of bed, slides his feet into his moccasins, the fur sewn around the opening caressing his ankles.

He checks Millicent’s food and water dishes, and then her litterbox. He doesn’t need to do anything—and, if he thinks about it, he hasn’t _had_ to do anything the entire time, not since Millicent moved in—Kylo does it all, and slips Millicent catnip on the side, and it’s just like the tarine tea—they can’t even fight about it, because Kylo won’t admit he’s even _doing_ it.

Armitage showers, goes through his regular morning routine—except instead of getting dressed afterwards, he slips on his silk robe. He stands there a moment, leans back against Kylo’s side of the closet in order to stare at his own clothes. Kylo has a tendency to wear his bunnyhugs more than once, and there’s one of them hanging right behind Armitage’s head now, the smell of it completely distracting, considering that all Armitage is trying to decide is whether he wants to layer another robe over his silk one so that he’s warm. After a moment, he gives up entirely, goes into the bathroom, and removes all three boxes from under the sink.

(On his way back through the closet, he tugs at Kylo’s bunnyhug, and it immediately slides off the hanger and into his hand. He tosses it on the bed on his way back to the kitchen.)

He holds his cellphone up against his ear with one hand while he rummages through Kylo’s art supplies for a box cutter with the other.

“Resistance Coffee, Poe speaking.”

“Hey,” Armitage says. “I’m tapping out on my shift today. Can’t make it.” He doesn’t bother to say _sorry,_ because it’s always sounded insincere coming from him, and it’s not like Poe is going to believe him anyway.

“Seriously?” Poe says. “You’re not even going to fake sick.”

“You know I’m not,” Armitage says. “I’m telling you that I’m not going to be there today.”

“The fuck am I supposed to do, call your fiance in?”

“He has class,” Armitage says automatically. “Morning and afternoon, there’s no way.” He finds a box cutter, extends the blade to see if it’s in decent condition, which it is. Apparently Kylo snaps his blades off on a semi-regular basis, so Armitage guesses he has that going for him, at least.

(He side-eyes the paintings that Kylo’s been working on as he walks back to the kitchen. They’re still not great. They’re improving. But he doesn’t want to tell Kylo that, because he can’t handle the way Kylo beams when he gets complimented on something, like nobody has ever complimented him on anything, and Armitage fucking _hates_ it because he’d do it. That’s the worst part of it. He’d fucking do it. He’d compliment Kylo _all the time_ for that goddamn fucking smile.)

Poe sighs, heavily, on the other end of the line. “Could you just, like, cough or something? Fake it?”

“No,” Armitage says. “You know I don’t.” He flips the knife over, draws a careful line along the top of the first box, cutting the tape with surgical precision.

“Like, I’d threaten to write you up for this. But it’s not gonna matter.”

“It’s not,” Armitage agrees. “You’d never find another assistant manager who’s gonna accept the fucking bizarre schedule you put me on and do your books besides.”

“Maybe I’d get an assistant manager who would show up for their fucking shifts.”

“Or maybe you wouldn’t,” Armitage says coolly. “You’re free to fire me.” He sets the first box aside, gently slits the second.

“Don’t pull this shit on me again,” Poe says, finally.

“Sure,” Armitage says. It’s one of those things where they both know it’s a lie, like _this is working out for me too_ , or _I don’t mind that you’re particular_ or _I’ll be right back to finish you off, I promise_. Their entire relationship had been built on those types of lies—so why should their co-working relationship be any different?

“See you next week,” Poe says.

“Sure,” Armitage repeats.

He hangs up, sets his phone down. Palms himself through his robe, silk slipping over his cock, caressing it. He’s still half-hard, and he can feel the anticipation building. He has all the time he needs. This is going to be perfect. He carefully cuts the third box open.

He imagines the way Kylo would look at him, if he were here. Those brown eyes of his, warm and open. His mouth slightly slack. He’d be slow to react to anything Armitage said, because he’s always slow to react to anything Armitage says, and it’s—compelling, in the worst kind of way, because he can just watch the understanding dawn across Kylo’s face, and his chest gets all warm, and he just—he likes it. He likes it a lot.

(He likes _Kylo_ a lot.)

Armitage retracts the blade of Kylo’s knife, sets it aside on the counter. Looks at his opened boxes, and reaches into the first one.

It’s the remote control plug. He can tell by the texture of it, the silicone ribs up the width. He pulls it out, and it’s just as pink as the website indicated, bright and neon and beautiful, the silicone soft and textured, the weight of it significant due to the motor embedded inside. He reaches his other hand into the box, digs through the packing peanuts until he finds the remote control. It’s small, rectangular. Textured buttons, so he’ll be able to adjust it even if he’s not looking at the remote, even if he _can’t_ look at the remote. Even if he’s…busy.

He sets the pink buttplug on the counter, sets the remote beside it. Reaches into the same box, and pulls out the silicone dildo. It’s from the same company, and it’s just as beautifully made as the plug—long and curved slightly, four segments that are similar to anal beads, but thicker, stronger, _better_. He picks the dildo up, wraps his fingers around it. It’s marbled—pink silicone marbled with white, shot through with bits of gold that glimmer under the kitchen lights. It’s going to feel so fucking good up his ass, so good when he thrusts it into himself, so good when he—doesn’t think about Kylo while he does it, he doesn’t think—

(He’s _going_ to think about Kylo while he does it, and it’ll make dinner with him tonight extraordinarily difficult, and Armitage is just going to take that one for the team. He’ll jack off thinking about Kylo now, and then he’ll watch Kylo fidget with his utensils later, eating whatever the fuck Bala-Tik thinks is food. Drinking his beer like he likes it, not like he’s just tolerating it for Armitage.)

He sets the dildo next to the plug, pushes the empty box over to the side, and pulls the next box closer. It’s a smaller box, and the item inside is packed more carefully. Packing peanuts, and then pieces of paper, and then underneath that, a silk bag. Armitage lifts the silk bag out of the box, carefully opens up the drawstrings, and reaches inside.

The plug is hand-blown glass, with nebulae and galaxies swirling around the inside of it, narrow at the tip and then widening toward the base, a thick squat plug with the entire solar system trapped inside it. It looks like Kylo’s paintings—it looks so much like Kylo’s paintings—and Armitage is going to shove it right up his ass, and he’s going to stroke his dick while he does it, and he’s going to be entirely alone, and the whole thing will be perfect.

Armitage sets the glass plug next to the other two toys, lays it down on its side, braces it against the other toys so it doesn’t roll off. He pushes that box off to the side, and pulls the last box toward him. Everything looks promising so far, but this box—this box is the one that’s important. This is the one that will make or break everything, this is the culprit of the noise, _thunk-thunk_ , _thunk-thunk_ when Kylo manhandled the stack of his parcels _,_ and all Armitage wants is for this one to be good—it won’t be quite as good as it could be, but it’ll be good enough, it’ll be heavy and thick in his hand, it’ll be—

Armitage closes his eyes, reaches into the box. Moves the pieces of paper aside, moves the packing aside, wraps his fingers around it. (His fingers don’t touch.) He pulls it out of the packaging, carefully opens his eyes, and it’s—

—it’s fucking glorious, is what it is.

Long and thick, an odd beige colour that isn’t quite the colour of—well, it isn’t right. Veins running up the side of it, which is—not as accurate as what Armitage had wanted, but it’s not like he could have just—sent in a cast. He had to do his best with what he had—and so now, what he has is this. A silicone impression of a cock that doesn’t look anything like Kylo’s, not even if he squints. (Kylo is longer than the toy, and a little thicker, and his foreskin pulls back when he’s fully hard, instead of—whatever the fuck this dildo is doing, but—but whatever. It’s close. It’s close enough.)

There’s a suction cup on the base of the toy. Armitage presses it down onto the counter, seats it firmly, and then tugs at the shaft of it. The suction cup holds, and that’s good. That’s very good.

(He’s going to need that later.)

He digs around in the box again, pulls out a couple bottles of lube. He drops them into the pocket of his silk robe, and takes everything back to the bathroom.

 

It’s forty-five minutes later, and Armitage is back in bed, wrapped in his robe, wearing Kylo’s bunnyhug to keep himself warm. He has the hood pulled up, and he can _smell_ Kylo, smell Kylo’s sweat. If he turns his head to the side, he can burrow into the fabric, pretend Kylo is here. He throws one arm over his face to hide his eyes, holds the remote control loosely in his other hand, lube-slick thumb sliding over the textured buttons. The plug up his ass is vibrating, a steady vibration that starts soft, and then ramps up until suddenly dropping off, then starting again. He can feel sweat starting to bead at the small of his back, and his cock is fully hard. It brushes against the robe every time he moves, and it feels _amazing_. He probably has a few more minutes that he can do this before he needs to—

A clear bead of fluid collects at the tip of his cock, smears onto the robe. Sighing, Armitage dials the frequency down on the remote control, tips his head to the side and licks at the edge of Kylo’s hood. He keeps his hand away from his cock until it’s started to soften, and then gently touches himself again, dragging his fingertips up his shaft. He’s so warm, wrapped up in Kylo’s clothing like this, with his hand on his cock, and something textured and mechanical up his ass. There’s no hurry.

He still has more time—Kylo will be in class all day, and this is the first real amount of privacy that he’s had since he’s moved in here.

Armitage is going to draw this out as long as humanly possible.

 

The glass plug is fantastic, and Armitage squints at his phone through half-lidded eyes as he lies in a hot bath, scrolling through another sex toy website, and looking for more toys to purchase. Fuck getting his belongings out of storage—he’ll just order new everything. The sheer weight of the plug in his ass is absolutely phenomenal, pressing him wide and open, and every time he touches the base of it, he thinks about galaxies and constellations, supernovas exploding and black holes sucking all the light out of everything. (He thinks of Starkiller, pulling everything into itself, and then levelling everything in an awesome blast of pure light.) The bathroom door is cracked open to let the steam out, and so Millie can wander in and out as she pleases. Right now, she’s in, lying curled up on the mat, and Armitage tilts his phone toward her, knowing damn well that her eyes are shut, and she wouldn’t look anyway.

“This one?” he asks.

She flicks her tail.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s keep looking. What about this one? It looks a little more reasonably sized. I mean, there’s no sense in getting ahead of ourselves, is there?”

He shifts a little in the tub, sighs as the plug shifts inside him. The pressure on his prostate is perfect—steady, but not overwhelming, and he can move the plug inside him just by tensing and releasing. He’s so turned on that his cock is staying hard even though the tub is steaming hot, his skin pinked up and face flushed.

He scrolls on his phone again, flips through the remainder of the plugs and puts a couple of the wider ones into his cart before moving on to the dildos.

“Mmmm, this one looks nice,” he says. The plug shifts inside him wonderfully, and he ducks his other hand under the bubbles, strokes his cock, steady and slow. “Look, the curve of it is lovely, and it looks almost like a galaxy inside, all swirls and—aaaaahhh.” His eyelids flutter as he shifts, gets pressure on exactly the right spot. His hand, hanging over the rim of the tub, loosens, and his phone falls softly to the folded towels that he’d left beside the tub.

(He wishes Kylo was here. Kylo wouldn’t know what to do with him. It’s fine. This is fine.)

He tightens his left hand around his cock, continues to stroke himself under the water, steady and so slow that the surface of the tub hardly ripples. His breathing is picking up again, but this is the first time he’s really edged since he’s gotten into the tub, and it’s always harder for him to come in the water anyway, so he has a little more leeway than what he would otherwise, a little more space than he normally would, as long as he’s very careful, as long as he doesn’t build too quickly, as long as he remembers to—oh, oh, _oh_!—to slow down before he goes too far, to slow down while he still can, to—

“Slow down,” he says to himself, and the words echo around the bathroom. His voice only cracks a little. He feels it through his skin, arousal shocking through his veins, and it feels amazing. It feels even better because he’s been denying it for so long, he’s been drawing it out, he’s been making it last, and it’s everything he’s always wanted, just the way he’s always wanted.

(He’s lonely.)

Armitage slides his hand, one more time, down the length of his cock, and then slides down into the tub until his earlobes just barely touch the water. Inhales. Exhales. Inhales. He can feel it humming just under his skin—arousal and longing, want and desire, the anticipation of the toe-curling orgasm he’s going to have and the knowledge that he’s going to draw it out as long as he possibly can—and then longer, longer, longer—riding the anticipation as long as he can, riding that point right before the peak, riding the best part of the entire experience until it all crumbles out from underneath him—

_There_. He clenches his hand tight around the base of his cock, chews at his lower lip, breathes in short irregular gasps. It’s so good, it’s so good, it’s so fucking good—

( _Kylo_.)

He reaches down and strokes himself again, makes sure he stays hard, makes sure he stays on the edge, just—just not as close as he was before. It feels so good he can feel it in his goddamn teeth, a tingling in his molars. He flexes his feet, curls his toes. Reaches down and grabs his own ankle, pulls it back behind his head to stretch out—water dripping down the length of his leg—and then lets go, does the same with the other to make sure he’s stretched out, make sure he’s not going to cramp up as he gets closer—

(once was enough)

—and then he sighs, stretches his whole body out, clenches his ass around the plug, feeling it press up against his prostate. Then he leans over the tub, picks up his phone, and keeps scrolling through glass dildoes with one hand while he adds more hot water to the tub with his other.

Millie looks up at him.

“I know,” he says. “I know, I know. You don’t care.”

She rolls onto her back, and he swaps his phone to his left hand, reaches out with his right and scritches her on her chest while she purrs at him.

“Now go on,” he says. “You probably don’t want to be here for this part.”

She yowls at him, and then gets up and saunters out of the bathroom.

“Good girl,” Armitage murmurs to the empty bathroom. Then he reaches under the water, between his legs, and gently taps on the base of the plug, biting his lip, feels it echoing up inside him. It feels so fucking good. After a moment, he stands up, steps out of the tub, and then reaches back. He tugs the plug sharply, feels it push against him, stretching him out wide—and then he steadily pulls until the plug comes out, slick and warm and heavy. He sets it into the soapy water in the sink.

The pink silicone dildo is already sitting on a hand towel on the counter, pre-lubed—but he drizzles more lube over his fingers anyway, reaches behind himself and _in_ ,  pressing against his prostate—and holy fuck, it feels good to moan the way he wants to, the way he needs to, without being overheard, without having to muffle himself on his own wrist or press his mouth into Kylo’s hair—although he wouldn’t mind having Kylo’s hair to press his mouth into now, have Kylo’s arms wrapped around him, Kylo’s fingers—

( _Fuck_ , the entire point of this should have been to stop thinking about Kylo, to remind himself that he is completely self-sufficient, that he is the best partner for himself because other people will fail him every single time—but he can’t stop thinking about Kylo’s fingers when his own are too narrow, can’t stop thinking about burrowing his face into Kylo’s neck, the way Kylo’s chest is solid against his own, those needy gasps that Kylo makes when he’s close, so close—)

Armitage fucks himself bent over the bathroom counter, his forehead resting on his left arm and his right arm bent back behind him, thrusting the dildo steadily in and out of his ass. He can feel every individual bump on the length of the thing, every time it forces him wide and then lets him clench tight over the narrower part, and it’s fucking amazing. It feels so fucking good when he’s been working up to it like this, so fucking good when he’s spent this amount of time on it, and he’s getting so close so fast now, he’s getting to the point where he’s going to have to make a call about whether he finishes now or finishes it out the way he’d planned, because his orgasm is getting closer and he’s almost at that point of no return, the point where he’s panting and sweating and shaking, the part where he’s going to start screaming as he fucks his own ass. He’s been edging for so long that he’ll be able to come untouched easily, and—and fuck the rest of his plan, fuck the rest of the time he was going to take on this, he’s just going to—oh, ah, _hell_ , he’s—he’s going to keep fucking himself until he comes, he’s going to—

His phone buzzes, and he suddenly realizes what he’s doing, realizes he’s bent over drooling onto the bathroom counter with a cramp in his foot and a pink dildo marbled through with gold shoved up his ass. He squeezes his eyes shut, involuntary tears escaping out the corner, bites down hard on his lip, and moves his hand from the base of the dildo to the base of his own cock, squeezes himself tight to prevent himself from coming. He can feel the dildo sliding out of his ass and drooping down between his legs, lube-slick and heavy, gravity pulling it toward the floor, one of the bulbs pulling heavily against his rim.

After a moment, he crouches, makes an attempt to bear down. When that does nothing, he reaches back, and pulls the dildo the rest of the way out of his ass, sets it on the floor. Crouches there for a moment, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, breathing. Then he reaches between his legs again, strokes his cock as he bites down hard on his lip, and then reaches back to touch his ass, where he’s soaking wet from lube, open and loose and ready. He presses two of his fingers deep inside, pressing at his prostate, and then withdraws them, and settles back into the tub.

He can do this. It’s like running a marathon—he can’t back out right at the end, he just needs to—grit his teeth, bite his lip, touch his cock, and keep going. (If he thinks of Kylo while he does it, it’s nobody’s business but his own.) Armitage rests his head back against the lip of the bath, starts stroking himself again before reaching over the side of the tub, picking up his phone, and swiping it open.

(He does this without fear, now—new phone, new number, and Kylo’s the only one who has it.)

_Kylo: What are you up to? Class is awful today, I m_

_Kylo: ‘m bored._

Armitage blinks, looks at the texts again. Stops moving his hand on his cock—but after a moment, rethinks that, and starts moving it again. Considers texting back one-handed, but he’s never done that before and it’ll probably turn out like shit, so he just thumbs open his camera, sticks one of his feet out of the water and rests it beside the tap, and then takes the photo. His foot, pink from the hot water, just beside the tap. A slightly artistic angle, just so Kylo doesn’t forget that Armitage is an artist, that Armitage knows how to take a photograph. Knows how to frame things so they look the way he wants them to, knows how things are supposed to be.

There’s silence for a few minutes, and Armitage is just about to put his phone back down and continue masturbating when his screen suddenly lights up.

_Kylo: HUX. I’M IN CLASS._

He picks back a response laboriously with his index finger, holding the phone out over the towels so that he doesn’t risk dropping it into the tub.

_Armitage: Well, then, stop texting me. Typos and everything, tsk tsk, Kylo._

He hesitates—he never texts twice in a row—and then does it anyway.

_Armitage: All you had to say was that you didn’t want pictures_

_Kylo: NO_

_Kylo: I want pictures._

_Kylo: I totally want pictures._

_Kylo: You just startled me._

_Kylo: Please yes pictures._

_Kylo: How long have you been in there, anyway? Your toes look like little prunes, bet they would feel super cute._

Armitage flinches, shudders at the thought of Kylo wrapping his hands around Armitage’s feet, one big palm encircling each foot, fingers pressing into his arch. It’s an awkward compliment—it’s like every single compliment Kylo gives is awkward in some way, unexpected. Armitage is unused to compliments as it is, and Kylo always focuses on such odd things about Armitage that he can’t even argue about it.

_Armitage: None of your business. I’ll be in here as long as I like, and then I’ll have a nap afterwards._

_Kylo: Thought you worked?_

_Armitage: “sick”_

He strokes his cock again, slides his fingers back around his balls, and then to his loosened, lubed hole. He gasps a little when he puts his fingers in—three this time, and they slide in easily as he presses them up toward his prostate. It feels fucking amazing. He has no regrets.

_Kylo: Oh, shit, you didn’t look sick this morning._

(He has one regret.)

Armitage doesn’t put any thought into it whatsoever, just flips the camera open again, arches his eyebrow, looking disdainful, and takes a picture. He reviews the photo for a moment—he’s flushed as hell, his hair falling forward over his face, and his lip raw and painful-looking where he’d been gnawing at it—and then sends it anyway. The bathroom is as steamy as shit, it’s not untoward that his face is flushed, or that the flush is creeping down his neck into his chest. He wishes he could see Kylo’s face when he opens the photo—but there’s no sense waiting for the reaction. Kylo will either be coherent and polite about it, or he’ll be too flustered to form words, and anyway, this isn’t—this isn’t _about_ Kylo, this is about _Armitage_. He just wants to be selfish for once, without punishment, without judgement.

He waits to set the phone down until he’s confirmed that the photo has sent, and then sets it facedown on the floor, stands up again, and picks the last dildo up off the counter. The one that’s meant to look like Kylo’s dick. He hefts it in his hand—it’s fucking _heavy_ , and it’s big, and it’s going to feel amazing. He picks the lube bottle up off the sink, sets it down on the ledge of the tub, and pulls the plug. While he waits for the water to drain, he closes his eyes,  imagines exactly how good Kylo had looked last week, standing in here naked with that massive cock out and his hand wrapped around it, his other hand tangled in his own hair as it fell, wet and loose, around his face.

Kylo’s dick has got to be close to the same distance from the floor as Armitage’s, but Armitage had counted the tiles on the wall anyway, and he counts them again now, starting at the ledge of the tub and working his way up, and then licking his tongue over the suction cup base of the dildo, and firmly pressing it against the tiles. Then he crouches back onto his heels, and just stares at it.

It’s not quite Kylo’s dick.

But it’s close enough to what he wants that it doesn’t matter.

(He tells himself that it doesn’t matter.)

 

Armitage deepthroats the dildo and touches his own cock until he can’t regulate his breathing anymore, until he fucks up his rhythm and gags on it. He imagines Kylo groaning and twitching above him, weaving his hands into Armitage’s hair and pulling, hard. He’s so turned on that he feels like he’s going to die, going to explode into an infinite number of pieces. Edging himself like this, without needing to worry about anyone else, is amazing. It’s (almost) everything he’s ever wanted. He can only come once—and he’s going to make this good, goddamn it.

Armitage pulls back from the dildo, drool running unfettered out of his mouth. He pumps lube into his palm, slathers it on the dildo, and then turns around, bracing his hands on the ledge of the tub, and looking straight at the cracked-open door. He tips his hips, slowly backs up against the cock. Feels the head of it pushing at his asshole, feels his asshole giving way, opening up to let it in, stretching just a bit because after he’d taken the glass plug out, he hadn’t put anything else back in. He hesitates, trying to decide whether he wants to thrust back against it hard or whether he wants to slowly ease it in, when he hears a clatter from the main room of the apartment.

“Not now, Millie,” Armitage calls. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

He’s starting to shake again, cock hard and throbbing, hands twitching where they’re latched onto the wet lip of the tub. Armitage bites down hard on his lower lip, and fucks himself slowly back onto the dildo.

It’s so good that he moans out loud anyway. All the time spent prepping, all the time spent edging, and the dildo just slides deep into his ass, stretching him like it’s splitting him open, burning deliciously.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Armitage says, and the cursing makes him think of Kylo, makes him think about the way Kylo falls apart underneath him, or on top of him, the way Kylo falls apart when Armitage touches him, the way that Kylo—oh, _fuck_ , the way that Kylo’s dick is almost exactly the same size as this dildo, which means that fucking himself on this dildo feels almost like fucking himself on Kylo’s cock would feel—

“Kylo,” Armitage moans, and the sound echoes through the bathroom. He pauses with the dildo fully seated in him, legs straight and pressed back against the tile wall of the tub, and then he starts to fuck himself on it, slow sharp thrusts at the very deepest part of him.

“Fuck me,” he says, and then, because it feels good to say it—because it feels good to finally admit what he wants—because it feels fucking amazing to have a cock shoved up his ass and his roommate’s—his fake fiance—to have _Kylo’s_ name on his tongue, he lets himself say it again. “Fuck me, Kylo. Oh, hell—fuck me, give it to me, let me feel that fucking cock in there, I love it, you feel so goddamn good, you’re so thick, you’re going to—oh, hell, you’re going to make me come, Kylo. Kylo, you’re going to make me come, you’re going to—Kylo, hell, I’ve been waiting so long, I’ve been waiting so long, I’ve been—can I—Kylo—”

He can’t wait any longer. He pulls himself up off the dildo, pulls it almost completely out of him and lets his ass twitch around the lube-slick head of it—and then he snaps his head to get his hair back out of his eyes, wraps one hand around his aching cock and braces himself on the bathtub with the other, and then he thrusts back, hard, onto the dildo, bottoming out as his fist tightens over his dick, jacking himself hard.

He comes with a scream that might be Kylo’s name, a scream so loud that his own ears ring afterwards. His toes curl, his molars ache, his teeth break through his lip and his hands spasm. His heart is pounding in his chest and he can’t get his breath. His vision greys out.

When he finally blinks and comes back to himself, he’s a fucking mess—there’s jizz all over his hand and dripping down into the tub, and his thighs are slick with lube. He takes a shaky breath, and then another. Winces a little as he pulls himself off the dildo and un-suctions it from the wall, tosses it into the sink. His legs are shaking too much for him to consider trying to stand unsupported, so he leans against the counter as he waits for the tub to drain, rinses the dildos and the plugs off in the sink and leaves them to dry off in the counter.

He sits in the tub, detaches the shower head and carefully sprays himself off, rinsing all the lube off with soap. It takes him a while, but he’s sex-drunk and bleary, absolutely exhausted after having come that hard. He gets out of the tub, rubs himself down with the last clean towel, and then realizes that he must have left his robe out on the bed along with Kylo’s bunnyhug. Maybe he’ll just wear the bunnyhug for a while, come down from his orgasm wrapped up in Kylo’s clothes.

Armitage scrubs off his hair one last time, picks all the sex toys up, and carefully, stance a little wider than usual, walks out to the main room. He’ll just put his toys away, give Millie a snack, and then collapse on the bed for a nap.

It’s the middle of the afternoon. Armitage expects to come out into the main room to see sunlight streaming across the bed.

He does not expect the sunlight to be blocked by Kylo Ren, who is staring at him, mouth open and jaw slack.

“Fuck,” Armitage says.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARMITAGE. BUDDY. ARMITAGE.
> 
> Come yell at me over [on my blog, right over this way](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/05/26/dtd-chapter-twelve-breakdown/).
> 
> Just as a heads-up, Dollars to Donuts is going on a brief hiatus! I'm travelling a little next weekend, and rather than trying to post and be out of town the same week, I'm going to delay posting by a week. So there will be NO Dollars to Donuts update next week, and then updates will resume June 9th.


	13. overflow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well,” Armitage snaps acidly. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I COME BEARING CHAPTER WARNINGS. (I put that in caps so hopefully people don't skim over it, but if you want to avoid any and all spoilers, just shut your eyes and scroll down a bit.)
> 
>  
> 
> Here's the scoop:
> 
>  
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS  
> \- drinking as self-medication (story-typical)  
> \- toxic family dynamics  
> \- parental abuse occurring in the chapter; past abuse referenced  
> \- implied homophobic slurs  
> \- brief violence
> 
> I've included, in the end notes, a specific breakdown of what happens in a specific part of the chapter, in case it's needed after the above warnings, so if you want to take a peek at that, scroll down to the bottom. You can also reach out to me on tumblr (@heyktula) or email (heyktula@gmail.com) with questions.
> 
> As always, a shoutout to deadsy, for her spectacular beta work and patience with me as a disaster!human, and to valda, who copyedited the shit out of this for me, as per usual.
> 
> (Also my subsequent apologies to valda, because I made changes after the fact, and probably added errors back in. Those are on me, not on her.)

“Well,” Armitage snaps acidly. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Kylo shakes his head. Doesn’t trust his voice. Can’t decide whether he wants to look at Armitage—partially dressed, now, in unbuttoned jeans, but with his chest still bare, nipples peaked and skin flushed—or if it’s safer to look at the bed, except that Armitage’s—Armitage’s sex toys are still there, with a towel tossed over them, but a towel doesn’t disguise the shapes of them, and anyway, Kylo’s already seen them, and he can’t fucking breathe because he hadn’t imagined—hadn’t imagined—

(Kylo’s bunnyhug is there too. He’s pretty certain that he hung it back up in the closet, except it’s definitely lying on the bed now, and Kylo doesn’t even know how to form that question into words. His voice will break if he tries.)

Armitage huffs, zips up his jeans. His hands are shaking, and he fumbles the button, and Kylo wonders if he’s always like this after he’s come, if he’s always so—flushed and shaky and downright _messy_ , if it’s normal for him to keep dragging his hands through his hair like this and fucking it up, and Kylo’s gotta say something, he’s gotta open his mouth and say something, but all he can think about is Armitage gasping and moaning Kylo’s name, the flesh-slap sound of Armitage’s hand on his cock, and the vague ringing noise echoing in Kylo’s own ears.

He watches Armitage pull a shirt over his head, watches him worry at the hem of it and yank on the neck, which isn’t nearly as stretched out as his shirts normally are because—because it’s Kylo’s shirt, Armitage is wearing Kylo’s shirt, and Kylo needs to— _fuck_.

He sits down on the floor, puts his head in his hands, tries to breathe through—through hearing all that stuff in his head, through knowing Armitage was thinking about him, through knowing that he’d fucked up by staying, he should have just left again the minute he’d walked through the door, he should have just—but his legs had stopped working completely and part of him had wanted to know, except this is—this is a lot—and—and—

“Hey,” Armitage says softly. “Are you okay?”

There’s pressure on Kylo’s arm, and when Kylo looks over, it’s—it’s Armitage’s hand, resting lightly on Kylo’s upper arm. He’s wearing his engagement ring. The engagement ring Kylo bought for him, late at night when he couldn’t sleep because he was trying to come to grips with sharing a bed with _Armitage Hux_. Armitage is still wearing the engagement ring.

(Had he worn the engagement ring the entire time he—?)

_I’ve been waiting so long I’ve been waiting so long I’ve been—_

Kylo can’t speak. He can hardly swallow, but he forces himself to anyway. “Should have left as soon as I realized you didn’t hear me come in,” he mutters. “You didn’t—you didn’t hear me come in, right?”

“Thought you were Millie,” Armitage says. “It was stupid, I should have known. I just was—caught up.” He gingerly lowers himself to the ground before grimacing, and standing up again.

“Are you—”

“No,” Armitage says shortly. Then he sighs, runs his hand through his hair again, fucking it up even more. “Look, do you want—do you want to still go out for supper? Maybe this would be easier if we weren’t talking about it here, considering—” He gestures back toward the bathroom.

Kylo blushes and covers his face again. “Yes, please,” he mumbles into his hands. “I would really like that.”

“I’ll pay,” Armitage says, already heading to the kitchen. “Least I could do.”

“You don’t have to,” Kylo says, looking up at him.

“I think you’ll find that I do,” Armitage says tightly. He grabs his keys off the wall, and heads out of the apartment.

He’s gone so quickly that it takes Kylo a moment to realize that he didn’t put a jacket on—and not wanting Armitage to get too far ahead of him, Kylo reaches over and grabs his hoodie off the bed, and then heads out on unsteady legs.

He realizes the moment he gets outside that Armitage didn’t stop for his outdoor shoes either, and is heading to the pub in his moccasins. It throws Kylo off enough that he actually stops walking for a moment—and then has to hustle to catch up with Armitage, who is walking quickly, with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hey,” Kylo says.

Armitage keeps walking.

“Hey,” Kylo says, a little louder. “I brought you a sweater.”

Armitage spins on his heel, scowl already on his face—and then he goes dead white, staring at the bunnyhug in Kylo’s hand. “That’s yours,” he says softly.

Kylo shrugs, feigning a casualness that he doesn’t at all feel. “You helped yourself to it earlier.”

Armitage goes crimson instantly.

He’s still staring at the bunnyhug, so Kylo presses it into his hands, and Armitage—

—Armitage takes it, pulls it over his head. It’s ridiculously big on him, the sleeves too long and the body of the thing too wide, and he looks absolutely perfect in it.

“Hey,” Kylo says softly. “Do you, uh.” He swallows, almost reconsiders—and then goes for it. “Do you want to hold my hand?”

Armitage looks up from where he’s fidgeting with the hem of the bunnyhug, like a deer in the headlights. “What?”

“It’s fine if you don’t,” Kylo says. “I don’t _need_ it.” He closes the distance between them, and holds out his hand. “But it’d be nice, if you wanted to.”

Armitage blinks. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Okay.” He pulls back the too-long sleeve of Kylo’s bunnyhug, and interweaves his fingers with Kylo’s own. “Okay,” he says.

Kylo starts to walk, but Armitage doesn’t move. Kylo turns back to him.

Armitage clears his throat. “What, uh. Do you expect from. This.”

“I, uh,” Kylo says. He doesn’t know if Armitage is talking about the hand-holding, or the dinner, or the—ugh, or the fake engagement in its entirety. He hopes it’s not the last one. “I want to talk. I can learn—I can—I have…questions. I’m uh. I’m gonna look like a real fucking idiot at our wedding if I don’t know how any of this works.”

Armitage takes a deep breath like he’s going to say something—and if he says _we won’t make it that far_ , Kylo legitimately might cry, because he’s been trying so _hard_ —and then just exhales. “Nobody is gonna ask you who tops at the wedding, Kylo.”

“But if they _do_ ,” Kylo says, “I’m gonna look like a fucking idiot.”

“No, you’re not,” Armitage says. “Just say that I switch and we make it work, and—what the hell, Kylo, literally nobody is going to ask that question.”

“What about the bachelor party?” Kylo asks. “I mean, we might have sex at that.”

“We won’t—Kylo, that’s not—you don’t have sex at the bachelor party, that’s not what it’s for!” Armitage looks the closest to scandalized that Kylo has ever seen him—and it’s nice, actually, and Kylo can’t stop himself from smiling.

“Oh,” Armitage says, looking at Kylo’s mouth and then looking away. “You’re taking the piss.”

“A bit,” Kylo says, his smile transforming into a full-out grin. “Sorry.”

“Fucker,” Armitage says, but he squeezes Kylo’s hand as he says it.

_oh, hell, you’re going to make me come, Kylo. Kylo, you’re going to make me come, you’re going to_

“Do you think we could get this over with?” Armitage asks after a moment.

“Uh, yeah,” Kylo says, ducking his head so that Armitage doesn’t see him blush. “Let’s, uh. Let’s go talk about stuff.”

“I’m going to be shite at this,” Armitage mutters.

“That’s fine,” Kylo says, trying to sound reassuring. “That’s absolutely fine.”

 

Kylo gets them a booth in the back corner, far away from all the other patrons (and there are other patrons, for some reason—some kind of sports playing on the TV over the bar, and Bala-Tik perched up there holding court with a half-dozen or so rough-looking men). The lighting is dimmer in the back corner, but this way, nobody will be able to hear them, and Kylo has a distinct feeling that he doesn’t want anybody to overhear the conversation they’re going to have. He looks over his shoulder back at the bar—Armitage is standing there waiting for something, but Kylo has no idea what he’s waiting _for_ , seeing as Bala-Tik hasn’t moved from his spot on the counter.

Kylo slides into the booth, picks the side facing the back wall. He just wants to focus on Armitage, but—but not too much, because his brain is still mostly static when he thinks about what he walked in on earlier. He can’t _not_ think about it, is the thing—Armitage’s voice was so _husky_ and he was so _loud_ and Kylo doesn’t even know how to process any of this, because he doesn’t even really know—

“Bottoms up,” Armitage says, sliding a serving tray onto the table with two pints and four clear shots on it. He sounds like he’s trying to be cranky, but his voice doesn’t have the usual edge to it. “Had to pour the fucking things myself because _the game’s on._ Fuck him too, useless wanker.”

Kylo looks at the shots—all four of them are filled right to the brim—and then picks the one that looks like it’s in a slightly smaller shot glass, clinks it gently against Armitage’s, and then downs it.

He makes a face immediately afterwards, swallows again even though the vodka’s already down. “Forgot I hate shots.”

Armitage shrugs. “More for me.” He tosses the second shot back like it’s water, slides the third shot over to his spot at the table, and takes the beers off the tray. “Dunno what this is, but it’s on discount because he’s trying to finish the tail end of the keg. Also, I told him to discourage other people from sitting back here, but who the fuck knows if he’ll actually do that.”

“Okay,” Kylo says, still trying to process the vodka. He grabs his pint and takes a drink of that. It helps, a little. The beer is watered back, at least.

“Don’t puke on the table,” Armitage says. “If we’re going to have a conversation, we should have a conversation.” He hesitates, before taking the tray back, and heading back to the bar.

Kylo looks back over his shoulder, watches Armitage go. The hoodie is practically falling off his shoulders, and his jeans are _so_ tight on his legs, which means they must be that tight on his ass too, but Kylo can’t see it underneath the length of the hoodie. He squeezes his eyes shut, hard, and then roughly palms his dick under the table—he still can’t tell whether he’s completely overwhelmed, or whether he just wants to go for it, and see what happens. He wants—he wants the second option, wants to actually be there while Armitage is panting his name, wants to look right into Armitage’s sex-flushed face and his half-lidded eyes as Armitage jacks himself off, wants to actually see what Armitage looks like instead of just seeing shadows of his body through the semi-transparent shower curtain. But the thing is—Kylo is fucking terrified. He has no idea what Armitage was doing in there—and he has the distinct feeling that he’s not going to be able to keep up.

“There’s nothing you can do until Armitage comes back,” he says softly to himself, and he fidgets under the table, rubs his left foot over his right, and waits for Armitage to return.

 

“So the first thing is I’m sorry,” Armitage says. He’s not making eye contact with Kylo, hasn’t made eye contact with Kylo since sliding back into the booth with a lit cigarette and another pint.

(Kylo wishes, desperately, that he had some kind of a distraction from his anxiety—but there’s nothing. The beer is in glasses, so there aren’t any labels to peel, he can’t chew his nails in front of Armitage, and there’s no napkins anywhere near them. All he can think about is what he overheard, and he doesn’t even understand fully _what_ he overheard, and he’s really, really glad that he hadn’t actually masturbated for Armitage the other day like Armitage had suggested, because _wow_ , would Kylo’s display have been lacklustre in comparison.)

“I’m sorry that you had to hear that,” Armitage continues, his words and phrasing stilted. “And I know with our—arrangement. Things are complicated.  We each have obligations to the other. And I promised you I would be—respectful, and that—wasn’t. It really, really wasn’t.”

Kylo blinks, trying to remember when Armitage had promised that, and not coming up with anything. He hesitantly slides his hand across the table—but Armitage isn’t looking at him, is still staring off into the distance. He inhales heavily from his cigarette, and exhales the smoke in two plumes out his nose.

“I’m sorry for exposing you to that,” Armitage says. “I never meant for you to overhear—”

“It was hot,” Kylo says quietly.

Armitage looks at him, cigarette burning down between his fingers. “What?”

“It was hot,” Kylo repeats, trying not to die of shame while he says it. He has to look away—so he stares down at the table, feeling the heat rising in his face.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Armitage says flatly. “You looked like you were having a panic attack. You look like you’re having one now.”

“I kind of was,” Kylo says. “Am. I mean, it’s a lot, you know? I don’t—I didn’t—” He picks up his pint, swigs back half of it, and then asks the first thing that comes to mind. “Does it feel good? Those—those things in your mouth. Is it as good as the real thing?”

Armitage is staring at him.

“Kylo,” he says. “You don’t seriously think…?”

“What?” Kylo asks.

“Kylo,” Armitage repeats, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. “You can’t seriously—my _mouth_?”

“Well, you like giving head,” Kylo says. “You told me that.”

“Oh, yes,” Armitage says sardonically. “My mouth, yes. I’m absolutely _brilliant_ at enunciating through a mouthful of silicone dick.”

“You were,” Kylo says. “I could hear you really clearly, considering.”

The silence is immediate.

After a few minutes, Kylo hazards a look up. “What?”

“That’s not what those are _for_ ,” Armitage snaps. “That’s not where I _had_ them, I can’t—”

Kylo blinks. “Where did you…?”

Armitage stares at him.

“I want to know,” Kylo insists stubbornly.

“You’re taking the piss again,” Armitage insists.

“I’m not! I just—you said you like giving head, so I thought—you know, you start with the smaller one, and then you just…”

Armitage shakes his head slowly.

“…you don’t?”

Armitage holds up his left hand, puts his index finger and his middle finger together, and watches Kylo.

Kylo frowns at him, opens his mouth—

—Armitage shifts in his seat and—

— _oh_.

Kylo’s face is burning so hot that his skin may melt off, and he feels like a massive idiot. “Oh,” he says. “I, uh. Does. Does that actually. Is that good for you?”

Armitage won’t look at him. Kylo looks down at the table, tries to marshal some words to explain.

“I thought…” Kylo says slowly. His tongue is thick in his mouth, and it’s hard to enunciate. “The, uh. The butt…thing. I thought people were just—you know. Making fun of—of people. I, uh. Was it. Was it good for you?”

“Are you accusing me of faking?” Armitage asks, voice going shrill. “Are you—”

“No, no,” Kylo says, looking up at him for the first time, and Armitage—

—Armitage looks like shit, actually. The flush hasn’t really gone fully away from his face, and his mouth is all—pulled tight, and twisted. He’s got his hand clenched around his beer, and he keeps eyeing up the shot that’s still sitting on the other side of the table. The cigarette hanging out of his mouth is—ugh, it looks weirdly attractive even though Kylo hates the pallor of smoke that’s hanging over the table.

“Not of faking,” Kylo clarifies. “I just didn’t—” He takes a deep breath, finally figures out how to salvage the situation. “England, you know?”

“I’m Irish,” Armitage says tartly. He takes another deep inhalation on the cigarette, exhales out his nose. “Half. Whatever.”

“No, no,” Kylo says. “The—the think of England thing.”

Armitage stares at him. “Lie back and think of England?” he says incredulously.

“Yeah!” Kylo says. “That thing.”

Armitage lowers his voice to an aggrieved whisper. “ _You thought anal sex was like lying back and thinking of England?_ ”

“I mean, it’s not like I had any other way to know!” Kylo snaps.

“Oh my fucking god,” Armitage says. “You were serious about the porn. I thought you were joking.”

“That’s how you get computer viruses,” Kylo hisses.

“Did you grow up in a _monastery_?”

“Kind of,” Kylo snaps. “Okay? It was—things were—I had—fucking hell, Armitage, you can’t just make this easy on me, can you?”

Armitage pulls back a little, looking wounded, a bunch of emotions flitting over his face that Kylo can’t identify. “How was I supposed to know,” he says, still sounded cranky and pissed off.

“How was I supposed to tell you?” Kylo retorts. “When you’re going to be all—like this about it. I get that this is normal for you, okay? But it’s not—this isn’t normal for me. This is all new, and some of it is fucking weird, and I _like_ it, I like it a lot, but I don’t know what the fuck is going on and I need you to have some damn patience with me, and actually let me talk some of this stuff out.” He moves his half-full beer closer to the wall, conscious that when he’s mad, he tends to use his hands when he talks, and he’s knocked over and broken enough stuff in his life and doesn’t need to start adding to that list again now. “I came home today because I thought you were _sick,_ the least you could do is explain some things to me.”

Nothing but silence from the other side of the table, and Kylo risks a glance at him—only to watch the blood draining from Armitage’s face, and his skin taking on an odd grey cast.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I have to request a favour of you,” Armitage says. His voice has gone—odd, accent sharpening back into the received pronunciation that he usually uses at work or on campus, rather than the softened slackness of his speech when it’s just him and Kylo. “And this will sound very strange. But it is important to me that you go and take a piss right now. Check on our food orders. Bring us back another pint.” He’s still staring off into the distance.

“I don’t need to piss,” Kylo says sullenly.

Armitage reaches over the table and puts his hand on top of Kylo’s, squeezes. “I know this is weird,” he says. “And I’ve heard everything that you’ve said, and it’s valid, and I understand, and I’m going to fix this. But I need you to just—go. For a minute. Take a walk.”

“You sound just like my uncle,” Kylo says, frustrated and upset. “I’m—I’m trying, Armitage, and you won’t let me—you won’t let me catch up.”

“Kylo—”

_you don’t actually think you don’t actually think you don’t actually think_

“Whatever,” Kylo snaps. He exhales heavily, shoves himself out of the booth, and stalks toward the bathroom. He has to walk nearly back to the bar before he’s able to cut across to the bathroom—it’s directly across from their table, but there’s a fucking wall in the way. Everybody is watching the game, yelling at the screen, and Kylo hates it, he _hates_ it, and there’s even an older guy walking to the back even though fucking Bala-Tik was supposed to keep everybody _out_ of that section.

“Fucking asshole,” Kylo spits under his breath, glaring at Bala-Tik as he passes. Alone or not, Kylo is going to have this conversation out with Armitage if it’s the last thing he does, which it very well might be, because this could be the end of the—

—this could be the end of the fake engagement.

If Kylo can’t pull himself together for this discussion—if he makes Armitage think he’s upset—and it’s not that he’s _not_ upset, it’s just that he’s also confused and horny and embarrassed—then Armitage might not think he’s mature enough to even _have_ the discussion, and if Armitage thinks he’s not mature enough to have the discussion, then Armitage—

—then Armitage isn’t going to think Kylo is worth dating for real.

(This is the first time Armitage has agreed to talk anything out, and if Kylo loses his temper, he’s going to lose his chance.)

He doesn’t go into the bathroom. He goes right past the bathroom door, the entire way down to the end of the hallway. It’s a stupid dead-end hallway in Armitage’s favourite stupid bar, and it’s at least quiet and private enough that Kylo can just take a minute, get his shit together. Try to calm down.

There’s a still life hung in the hall, illuminated by a decent light. It’s a weird painting, just like the rest of the art in this bar—a couple of lemons, two dark blue handkerchiefs, one on either side of the lemons, and a machine gun propped against the table. Really well done, technically, but fucking bizarre. There’s some kind of a metal thing between the lemons—it looks kind of like an oversized ring, but it’s got a teardrop shape to it, and Kylo stares at it while he silently counts his breaths, tries to figure out if he’s ever seen anything like it before, like a sculptural napkin ring or something, but he can’t think of—

—there’s a muffled _thud_ on the other side of the wall. The entire wall rattles, bits of debris shaking loose, and the painting tilts.

Kylo curses under his breath, grabs for the painting and tries to right it. It’s fucking awkward—he doesn’t know who the hell hung the canvas, but they’ve jury-rigged something onto the back of it, so it’s difficult to correct.

“—clumsy, just like your—”

Kylo looks behind him, but there’s nobody there. The hallway is empty.

He looks back at the painting, realizes that the sound is coming _through the wall_ , because of course that’s how fucking shitty this bar is, of course the sound transfers all the way through the wall, of course—

“—find you in a fucking bar, like the—”

Kylo frowns. It sounds like the precursor to an ugly bar fight on the other side of the wall is, and Kylo should have known with all the burly guys hanging around at the bar that there was going to be a fight sooner or later, but for fuck’s sake, he and Armitage were trying to have a _conversation_ and—

“—what you’re like, Armitage, weak and—”

Kylo’s chest clenches suddenly. His stomach is in freefall. He’s running back down the hallway before his brain has even connected what’s happening, skidding back out into the bar and then rounding the corner. Their booth is empty—their booth is empty, and Armitage is—Armitage is—

— _there_ , standing with his back against the wall, his hands at his side. The older guy is standing right next to Armitage, his face flushed and furious.

“Hey, what the fuck,” Kylo says, covering the distance between them as quickly as he can, sliding to a stop only a few feet in front of the two of them.

“Stay there,” the older man snaps, jabbing his finger into Armitage’s chest.

Armitage doesn’t move or breathe. He’s staring steadily into the distance at nothing. He hasn’t looked at or acknowledged Kylo.

“Who the fuck is this?” the older man demands.

“Who the fuck are _you_?” Kylo retorts. He tries his best to remember everything therapy taught him, but fuck, it feels really far away right now, and he’s going to—

Armitage gasps, and they both look to him. His hands are twitching at his sides, and he’s looking from the older man to Kylo and then back to the older man again. He clears his throat.

“Speak up,” the older man barks.

Armitage draws himself fully upright, clasps his wrist behind his back with his other hand, snaps his head back to get his hair out of his eyes. “Kylo,” he says. “This is Brendol. My father.”

The familial resemblance is clear now that Armitage has pointed it out—they would have had the same hair colour, at one point, and they’re a similar height, though Brendol is broader than Armitage, has the flushed face of a persistent drinker instead of Armitage’s elegance.

“Brendol,” Armitage continues. “This is Kylo.”

“Well,” Brendol demands, turning away from Kylo. “So what? Who is he to you? You think he’ll pull you out of this mess somehow, you think he can protect you?”

“I can,” Kylo says softly.

“—not as simple as changing—your—number,” Brendol continues, jabbing at Armitage’s chest again with his index finger. It’s like he’s forgotten Kylo is even there, has turned the entire brunt of his rage back on Armitage.

“I _can_ ,” Kylo insists, taking another step closer. “Back off.”

Brendol turns his head, raises a silvered eyebrow. “Who do you think you are,” he says slowly, “that you think you get to tell me that?”

“He’s—” Armitage says, haltingly. “He’s my. He’s.”

Kylo shakes his head a little. He wants to tell Armitage that he doesn’t have to, that this is okay—they’ll work around it, Armitage doesn’t have to—Kylo doesn’t need this, Kylo just needs Armitage to be safe, he doesn’t have to, he doesn’t—

“He’s my fiance,” Armitage says, finally, and Brendol _laughs,_ a hearty belly laugh so strong that he actually needs to step back, wheezing to catch his breath.

“I should have fucking known,” Brendol says. “Fuck me, I should have known you’d pull a stunt like this. Useless shite. I don’t know what depraved things you’ve done to get this—”

“Stop it,” Kylo says. His heart is pounding and he can taste copper in his mouth. “Fucking stop it.”

“—tolerate you for more than thirty seconds at a time, which is about my limit, and—”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Kylo repeats. His hands are twitching at his sides.

“I suppose that’s his too,” Brendol says, staring at the bunnyhug Armitage is wearing as though he’s noticing it for the first time. “Doesn’t fit you worth shit, but you always were small, you—” And then he says it.

Everything—everything is—white static and Kylo can’t—breathe or function and Armitage is—pale, pale, pale except for the red spot on his lower lip where his teeth are are dug into the flesh, and—

“I said _stop_ ,” Kylo yells.

Brendol turns to him, surprised, his other hand grabbing at Armitage’s bunnyhug, and Kylo—

—Kylo punches him square in the face.

Everything happens at once—Kylo’s knuckles burn as they split open and pain jolts up his arm—something in Brendol’s face _crunches_ and Kylo thinks hysterically that it’s probably his nose—Armitage stumbles back against the wall, breathing hard—Kylo clenches his fist and raises it again, brings his left arm up in case he has to block—

—but he doesn’t have to block anything, because Brendol just brings his hand up to his nose, to the gush of red blood going down his face.

“I fucking dare you,” Kylo snarls. “Call him that one more time. _I fucking dare you._ ” He can’t get his breath. He’s panicking. He’s never—he’s never punched anybody before, he’ll be—he’ll be arrested for sure, this is fucking serious, he’s not—he’s an adult now, he can’t—he can’t—Armitage—he’s—

“Move the fuck over,” someone growls from behind Kylo.

Kylo turns, quickly—too quickly, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he takes a few steps back so that he can get closer to Armitage, stay between Armitage and—

—it’s one of Bala-Tik’s goons. No, it’s more than one of them—it’s one of them standing in front of Kylo, and three of them grabbing Brendol by the arms and hauling him away, getting him out of the bar.

“Don’t go after him,” the goon standing closest to Kylo says in an undertone. “We’ll get him out—but if you come after him, we won’t do a fucking thing about it.”

Kylo takes another step back, closer to Armitage. “I’m staying right here,” he says. “I’m staying with my fiance.”

The goon claps Kylo on the shoulder, making him stagger. “Good choice,” he says. “You won’t regret it.” Then he takes off, following the other men.

There’s a ragged inhalation from behind him.

Kylo turns immediately, reaches for Armitage. “Shit, baby, fuck, are you—”

Armitage shakes his head, takes a step back. Squeezes his eyes shut. “Blood, I—”

Kylo looks down at himself. His right hand is covered in it, across his knuckles. He tucks it behind his back, looks down at the floor. There’s a spatter on the floor. He wipes his left hand reflexively on his jeans, scrubs his foot across the spatter. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay now. You can’t—it’s safe now, you can—you can open your eyes.”

(A cheer comes up from the bar. Kylo doesn’t even turn back, too fixated at watching Armitage, trying to figure out if he’s going to be okay. There’s nobody else to do it, and Kylo doesn’t think he realized until just this moment that there’s nobody to look out for Armitage except Kylo, and goddamn it, Kylo is going to do the best job that he can.)

Armitage opens his eyes, blinking rapidly. “I need a smoke,” he says. “Fresh air.”

“Do you want—” Kylo asks.

Armitage shakes his head. “Can’t. Need—need some space. A couple minutes. I—” He swallows hard, looks over Kylo’s shoulder. “Y-you finally showed up, look at that.”

Kylo turns.

Bala-Tik is leaning against the wall. “Boy here had it well in hand, I thought.” His voice is casual, but his eyes are darting around, back and forth, not making eye contact with anything for too long.

“I want—” Armitage starts.

“Lifetime ban,” Bala-Tik says quickly. “No cops. I’ll post guards. Get that security system you were bitching about last week. I’ll hire another cook.”

Armitage considers, jerks his head toward Kylo. “Patch him up too.” His voice is ragged and hoarse.

“Sure,” Bala-Tik says, nodding his head. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“I’ll be back,” Armitage says softly. He puts his hand on Kylo’s chest, and then slides it up to his neck, rubs his thumb in the hollow of Kylo’s throat. “I just need a bit of time.”

“You can have all you need,” Kylo breathes, and the corner of Armitage’s mouth turns up, ever so slightly, before his mouth twists and he’s ducking his head and jogging toward the back.

 

Armitage doesn’t come back to the booth until their food is already there, and he reaches across his plate to get his pint and take a deep drink of it before he sets it down and slides into the booth. He reeks of smoke and his eyes are red.

“Didn’t need to wait,” he says. His accent is still—wrong, too tight, the one that Kylo associates with _Hux_ and not the one he associates with _Armitage_.

Kylo looks up at him. “It’s polite,” he says. “And anyway, I was writing down what happened.” It’s taking him a long time—his hand is swelling underneath the bandages, the adrenaline has fucked up his thought processing, and his handwriting is sloppy.

(He’s of two minds on that. Normally, he would slice out the pages and rewrite them with a better hand, once his thought process has clarified a bit, but this time—this time, he might just keep them as they are, because it’s important. He thinks it’s important, that things happened this way.)

“Burn that, would you?” Armitage asks. “I’d rather not be reminded—and anyway, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Kylo says flatly, moving his right hand under the table so he can clench his fist where Armitage can’t see, knuckles aching under the bandages. “That was—”

“—approximately how Brendol operates, though with considerably less yelling this time.” Armitage picks up his fork, nudges at his potatoes for a moment or two.

“No, that was—I—Armitage.” Kylo exhales heavily, tries to gather his thoughts. Looks down at his journal, at the words he’s written there, and then just gets pissed off all over again. “My mom is an activist, and I used to go to a ton of protests, and this is—what he said to you—it’s hate speech, and it’s slander, and you don’t have to—”

“He’s my father,” Armitage says tightly. “I don’t have any choice about that.” He blinks, quicker than usual, and then puts down his fork and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Hey,” Kylo says, reaching across the table.

“Don’t,” Armitage hisses at him. He looks away. “I can’t bear it. Just—eat, would you? Ask me—whatever you wanted to ask me. We might as well have this talk, we might as well…”

“I can’t,” Kylo says. “Not right now.” _Not when you look like that_ , he thinks. _Not when I feel like this_. “There’s time later,” he adds. “We can just—we can just talk later.”

“I mean, who the fuck would want to marry into that anyway,” Armitage says bitterly. “I can’t get far enough away from him, he keeps—he just—”

“I don’t care,” Kylo says. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

Armitage grabs onto Kylo’s bunnyhug, pulls it over his head and off. He picks at a loose thread at the hem of his—at Kylo’s—shirt.

(Kylo tries not to think of him, then, from earlier today, stark naked with his hair in disarray, the two spots of colour burning high on his cheeks.)

“I didn’t know you could punch like that,” Armitage says after a few minutes. “Did Phasma teach you?”

“Anger issues,” Kylo says. He swallows, keeps looking at his food just so he doesn’t start getting furious again—he can still feel it in the back of his teeth, twisting in his stomach, the anger and the fury, the way he wants to go right after Brendol, hit him again, and just keep hitting him. “As a kid. Used to punch stuff a lot. She didn’t need to teach me, I already knew.”

“It was … nice,” Armitage says tentatively. He takes another drink, sets the glass down heavily on the table. “I used to—think about that a lot, as a kid. How nice it would be if somebody—rescued me.”

Kylo puts down his utensils, slowly looks up, not sure what kind of state Armitage is going to be in, or whether he’s going to want people looking at him, and—

—oh, _hell_ , Kylo thinks.

Armitage’s eyelashes are glittering just slightly in the light. He’s staring off into the distance, and he has his knees pulled up to his chest.

“You wanted someone to rescue you?” Kylo asks softly.

“A knight,” Armitage says. “Someone to come save me and take me away, protect me and keep me—it’s stupid.” He runs his hand back through his hair, and then picks up his drink again. “You just reminded me, that’s all. When you punched him.” Armitage’s mouth twists. “Don’t know if anybody’s ever done that to him before, I wish I hadn’t been so—wish I could have enjoyed it.”

“I did it for you,” Kylo says quietly. “I wish I’d been here right from the beginning so I could have stopped it sooner. He—he fucking deserved it for talking to you, for saying those things, you don’t deserve—nobody should treat you like that, not now, not ever.” He opens his mouth to say something else, but instead he just looks at Armitage’s hair, and thinks of the way it looked when Armitage had come out of the bathroom, all fucked up from—sex, or whatever he’d been doing in there, but he’d been thinking of Kylo, he’d come screaming Kylo’s name—

“You’re blushing,” Armitage says.

Kylo leans back in the booth, tips his head to the ceiling. His face is burning. “I was just—remembering…”

“Remembering what?” Armitage asks, voice finally— _finally_ —softening up into something approaching his normal accent. “What did you remember, Kylo?”

Kylo takes a deep breath. He can’t admit what he’s actually thinking about, because it’s filth, sheer filth—but he doesn’t want to steer the conversation back to Brendol, because nobody wants to have that conversation, least of all him, and so he just looks at the ceiling and—

Armitage’s hand is on his, thumb stroking against Kylo’s, the same way he had when he’d shaken Kylo’s hand, that very first day. Shaken Kylo’s hand, and just not let go of him, and Kylo never wants Armitage to let go. Not now, and not ever.

“It has been a bit of a day, hasn’t it,” Armitage says. “A long day.”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, non-committal. He takes another deep breath, looks back at Armitage, and instantly blushes again, because Armitage is smiling that odd half-smile, the same expression that had been on his face the first time he’d kissed Kylo—the first time he’d put his hand down Kylo’s pants—the first time—

“Sorry,” Kylo mutters, looks down at his food. There’s a piece of roast speared on his fork, and he puts it into his mouth just so he has something to focus on.

“It occurs to me,” Armitage says, “that I may have been injured during the—altercation earlier. The one you rescued me from. And so I’m going to—I’m going to go check that out. In the bathroom.”

Kylo chews his food, swallows. “Okay,” he says, once his mouth is empty. “I’ll be here.”

“Will you be?” Armitage asks lightly, and then he slides out of the booth, stubs his cigarette out on his plate, and heads for the bathroom.

Kylo exhales, long and shuddering, shifts on his seat to try and get comfortable. He reaches down to adjust himself under the table, takes a couple more steadying breaths, and then keeps eating.

His phone buzzes.

_Armitage: Kylo._

_Armitage: I’m in the bathroom._

_Armitage: Don’t ask me if I’m sick._

(Kylo backspaces out of the text he was composing.)

_Armitage: Stop eating, and come check my ‘injuries’._

_Armitage: Notice the quotes._

_Armitage: I am not injured._

_Armitage: Bathroom, now._

Kylo stands up, looks around the bar because he somehow feels like everybody is—looking at him, somehow, like everybody knows about what Armitage is texting him—but nobody is looking at him. Everyone is fixated on the game.

He shoves his phone in his back pocket, takes another deep breath, and goes to the bathroom.

Armitage is there, sitting on the counter, swinging his legs. “Oh good,” he says. “You came.”

“You told me to,” Kylo says, a little unsure.

“I thought you might want to check out my injuries,” Armitage says, and before Kylo can ask any questions, like— _what_ , or _why_ , or _how_ , Armitage has grabbed the hem of the shirt he’s wearing— _Kylo’s_ shirt—and whipped it up over his head.

The bottom drops out of Kylo’s stomach, and he swallows.

It’s the second time today that Armitage has been shirtless in front of him—and it’s the first time Kylo’s been able to _look._ Fuck, Armitage is glorious. He’s pale and narrow, with a soft swell of tummy at the waistband of his jeans. His nipples are pale, perking up in the chill of the bathroom, and his chest is hairless.

Kylo steps closer. “You don’t look injured,” he says softly.

Armitage scowls.

“But maybe I should check?” Kylo asks, trying to figure out whether he has the right of it—and he does, he thinks he does, because Armitage’s face softens.

Kylo reaches out slowly, telegraphing his intent the same way Armitage telegraphs it to him. “After all, I did rescue you, and it’s my responsibility to make sure that you’re—that you’re okay.” He touches Armitage’s ribs lightly, and then heavier when he realizes that the trembling of his fingertips is very obvious. (It’s everything—the adrenaline and the punch, Brendol and the phone calls, and the _can I, Kylo, can I?_ )

He’s only ever touched Armitage through his shirt before, and it’s so different being able to touch his bare skin.

Armitage’s breathing picks up.

“Does it hurt here?” Kylo asks, pressing his fingertips into Armitage’s ribs.

“No,” Armitage says.

“What about here?” Kylo asks, dragging his fingers over to Armitage’s sternum.

“No,” Armitage says.

“What about here?” Kylo asks, and he steps forward, wraps one arm around Armitage’s waist—it’s so small, he’s so slight, how is he so—so _everything_ —and presses the other hand flat against Armitage’s nipple.

“Oh,” Armitage says, voice gone breathy. “Oh, that’s—maybe you should look closer. Please. Make sure, I’ve been waiting—oh, I’ve been waiting years to be rescued, please, make sure I’m okay.”

“Alright,” Kylo says, and he runs a hand down Armitage’s back, rests it on the waistband of his jeans before slipping his hand down—

“Inside the stall,” Armitage says in his regular voice. “You want an angry Scotsman coming in here in the midst of this?”

“Shit,” Kylo curses, and then he reaches down and grabs Armitage by the ass, hauls him up.

Armitage makes a high-pitched _eep_ sound in Kylo’s ear, and then clings harder to him, wrapping his legs around Kylo’s waist. Kylo walks him into the stall, trying to ignore the part where he can’t quite hold him up, and Armitage is slowly slipping down his body. He hip-checks the stall door shut, and then leans back against the partition. Armitage wriggles a little in his arms, slides down until his toes touch the floor, and then pulls Kylo up against him.

“You’re so strong,” he purrs.

Kylo bends his head and starts kissing him. Armitage’s lips taste slightly of smoke, and his cheek tastes slightly of salt. He’s breathing a little faster than usual, and just hearing him is making Kylo hard.

“I’m never gonna let you go,” Kylo says, running his hands up and down Armitage’s bare chest. “I’m never gonna let you go, I’m gonna keep you with me always. Nobody’s gonna hurt you—not now, and not ever again.”

Armitage moans against him, starts fumbling with Kylo’s belt, yanking his shirt up out of his pants. “How’m I ever gonna repay you,” Armitage asks. “You protected me, you saved me, you—how can I—”

“Gonna take you home with me,” Kylo says, hooking his fingers into Armitage’s belt loops, and then thinking better of it, and resting them on Armitage’s hips, which are a little wider and a little softer than Kylo thought they would be, and _fuck_. Kylo is panting and can’t stop himself, because it’s the only way he can drag enough air into his lungs when Armitage is half-naked in front of him like this and Kylo can finally look all he wants. “Gonna protect you from everybody, keep you safe, keep you warm—bring you blankets, pet your hair, gonna—gonna make sure you’re kissed just as much as you deserve, gonna run you hot baths—”

“Have you been thinking,” Armitage says, his accent broader and broader, “about me in the bath, Kylo? Because I was—in there—earlier today.”

Kylo groans. “Oh god, Armitage, don’t, I’ll come.” He shuts his eyes, tips his pelvis away.

“That’s the point,” Armitage says gently. “You saved me, Kylo.”

Kylo opens his eyes, just in time to see Armitage press in close, eyes open, and then kiss him, lips parted and mouth gentle.

(Usually Kylo shuts his eyes, usually Kylo can’t bear to look at him, but there’s something beautiful about kissing him like this, mouths open, tongues touching. Full eye contact. Armitage’s eyelashes are wet and clumped together. His eyes are stunning and his mouth is so _warm._ Kylo can taste a hint of beer under the smoke, imagines he can taste Armitage’s toothpaste under that.)

Armitage pulls away first.

“Let me reward my saviour,” he says, and there’s a hint of his regular mischief in his face as he grins at Kylo, and then drops to his knees in the bathroom stall.

“Shit,” Kylo says. He runs his hands back through his hair, his ring snagging in a knot at the back. He looks down, and watches Armitage undo his pants, tug his jeans open, and press his hand against Kylo’s erection, which tents his boxers out obscenely. “Fuck, that feels good, that feels so good, Armitage.”

“You saved me,” Armitage says. “Tell me what you want, Kylo. Tell me what you want, you saved me, tell me what—”

“Can I touch your hair,” Kylo blurts.

Armitage looks up, grin vicious. “You wanna tug on my hair while I blow you, Kylo? Get your hands in there, and pull real hard?”

“Oh god,” Kylo says, pulling back. “I can’t, Armitage, not after—” His knuckles throb, and his hand aches. “Let me be gentle, Armitage, please, let me be gentle.”

Armitage’s face softens immediately. He ducks his head, rubs his eyes against his upper arm. “You don’t have to be,” he says, voice raw.

“I want to,” Kylo says. “I want you, Armitage.”

Armitage inhales raggedly. “I—don’t deserve.”

“Armitage,” Kylo breathes. “Please, I—let me show you I can be gentle, please?”

“I don’t,” Armitage says, nearly sobbing. “I can’t—we should talk—you don’t—”

“You deserve it,” Kylo says softly. He swallows. “Look, I—sex will make you feel better, right? That’s what—that’s what the pity blowjob was about the other week, right?”

Armitage sits back on his heels, stares down at his hands.

“We can—we can have sex if you want,” Kylo says. “If it’ll help.”

“Fuck,” Armitage says, exhaling heavily. “I thought you’d never ask.” He leans forward, rests his forehead against Kylo’s stomach and nuzzles his chin against Kylo’s underwear, the wet spot that’s forming at the head of his dick. Armitage puts his hands on Kylo’s thighs, drags them slowly upwards, and then hooks his fingers around Kylo’s underwear, and pulls it down his thighs. “You can be gentle with me if you want,” he says, voice throaty.

Kylo groans again as his dick springs free, nearly hitting Armitage in the face. He reaches out, cradles Armitage’s head in his hands, trying his best to keep the bandages from touching Armitage’s face at all. He slides his fingers up into Armitage’s hair. It’s soft, fluffy—doesn’t feel at all like he thought it would, but, then, it’s usually full of product, or still damp from the shower, not dry and soft and beautiful. Armitage presses up into Kylo’s hands, and it feels good to just—be close to him, now. After everything.

Armitage takes Kylo’s dick in his mouth, swirls his tongue around the head, and then takes it deeper, down into his throat. His throat is—tight, and hot, and wet, and Kylo’s already so close.

“I’m gonna come so hard,” he says, panting. “That feels so fucking good, Armitage. It feels amazing, holy fuck—how are you like this, how are you—”

Armitage brings his hands up, takes Kylo’s balls in one hand and uses the other to squeeze the base of Kylo’s cock, humming against the length of him.

Kylo tips his head back against the partition, trying to stop himself from twitching his hips into Armitage’s mouth. He paws awkwardly at Armitage’s hair with his left hand, brings his bandaged right up to his mouth to muffle everything he wants to say, all the noises he wants to make, all the feelings that are exploding out of his heart, trying to climb their way out his throat. _It’ll never happen again_ and _I’ll always protect you_ and _I’ll do my best to understand_ and _never leave me_ and, the worst of it, the absolute worst of it, _marry me for real_ on an endless loop inside his skull, echoing around his mouth, bouncing off his teeth as he breathes raggedly into his palm and tries not to say it, because this isn’t the right time, this isn’t the right time, this isn’t—

His hips twitch again and Armitage moans around his cock, which makes it that much harder for Kylo to stop from twitching his hips forward into Armitage’s mouth a second time. Armitage presses back against him with his hands and Kylo pulls away, blinking. “Did I hurt you—?” Kylo asks, voice ragged. “Did I—?”

“Never,” Armitage breathes. “I want you—just—I’ve got my hands here, okay? You won’t thrust too far. You can go ahead, if you want to. I know you’re holding yourself back, I can feel your thighs twitching—I can do this, Kylo. Please—let me.”

Kylo inhales raggedly, and Armitage goes back down on him again. The inside of his mouth is warm and wet and his tongue is moving on Kylo’s cock, and when Armitage presses even further, Kylo can feel his dick pushing against the back of Armitage’s throat.

“Oh fuck,” Kylo says softly. “Oh shit. Armitage.” He pushes forward a little, and Armitage swallows, sucks Kylo from the base up to the tip, and then puts his hands on Kylo’s hips and pulls Kylo back into him.

Kylo presses his hand against his mouth, breathes raggedly. “Oh fuck,” he says, relaxing into it, letting Armitage move him, because if Armitage is the one moving him, then there’s no way for Kylo to hurt him, there’s no way for him to do anything Armitage doesn’t want, there’s no way—

—oh, _fuck_ , Armitage’s throat is so _tight_ and so _hot_ and his tongue is _everywhere_ —

—and Armitage’s hands are clamped tight on Kylo’s hips, and he’s pulling Kylo right into him because he _wants_ Kylo, because he thinks about Kylo when he touches himself, because he calls out Kylo’s name when he comes—

“Shit,” Kylo says, softly. “Shit, Armitage, I’m gonna—I’m gonna come if you—” Except he doesn’t, somehow—Armitage shifts, moves one of his hands back to the base of Kylo’s cock and squeezes, hard, and even with Armitage’s mouth surrounding him, somehow he doesn’t quite come, not yet, although he’s hovering right on the edge of it, he’s right there, he’s so close—

“Let me,” Kylo slurs. “I don’t know how—I want—holy shit, Armitage, you’re so hot, your hair, I just—can I—Armitage, can I—”

Armitage pulls off and Kylo staggers back against the partition. His legs are shaky, and his dick is so hard it hurts, and Armitage’s lips are flushed, swollen, drool smeared on his chin. “Do it,” he says hoarsely, moving his hand quick and tight along Kylo’s length as he jacks him off. “Come down my throat, Kylo.”

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut, then presses his right hand against his mouth and puts his left into Armitage’s hair, opens his eyes and slowly thrusts all the way in, bringing Armitage’s head up against his pelvis until he can feel Armitage’s nose poking him and then relaxing, letting Armitage take back control, letting Armitage go as deep or as shallow as he wants, letting Armitage take what he needs—

“Fuck,” Kylo groans. “Holy shit, Armitage, I’m—I’m coming, holy shit.” It feels fucking amazing—he’d held out longer than he’s usually able to with Armitage, and the orgasm is more intense, a wave of pleasure that courses all through his body, weakening his knees and making him slump back against the stall.

He’s still twitching when Armitage swallows, oversensitive with it but still craving more. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths and trying to calm himself while Armitage does the same thing he always does—gently licks Kylo’s dick off, and tucks it back into his underwear. Kylo opens his eyes for the kiss that Armitage presses to his hip, because he wants to watch Armitage, wants to watch it unfold the way it always happens, how Armitage kisses his hip and then stands up and kisses his cheek—only Armitage is still down on his knees, resting his forehead against Kylo’s hip. Kylo can see his right arm moving, but not where his hand is, and he can hear—

“Oh,” Kylo breathes.

Armitage is touching himself.

His forehead is resting on Kylo’s hip, and Kylo can feel Armitage’s hot breath against his thigh. Kylo tilts his head to the side, just to try and see, and Armitage moans against him, keeps jerking himself off.

“C-can I?” Kylo asks. He frames Armitage’s face with his hands, and crouches down onto the bathroom floor. The bathroom floor is cold on his knees, even through his jeans. “Can I help, Armitage?”

Armitage looks up at him, bleary and unfocused. There’s sweat on his face and a smear of Kylo’s come on the side of his mouth. “Kylo,” he breathes. “You saved me.”

“Holy fuck,” Kylo says, and he presses Armitage’s face to his shoulder, traces his way down Armitage’s arm to where his hand works inside his pants.

Armitage’s fist stills as Kylo reaches it.

“Say it’s okay,” Kylo says. “Say that I can? I want to, Armitage, I want to so much—I’ll try so hard, please, I just—all I ever wanted was to know that you wanted me back, please let me help.”

Armitage takes a deep breath—and pulls his hand from his pants, undoes the button, yanks down the zipper, and guides Kylo’s hand back in.

“Go ahead,” he says roughly, lips right next to Kylo’s ear. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, what it would feel like to have your hand on me, have you touch me the way you touch yourself. Touch me, Kylo.”

Armitage’s cock is right there, hot under Kylo’s hand, the size and shape of it unfamiliar but so welcome. Kylo touches the head of it—slick and smooth, a bead of precome smearing on his finger when he does. He wraps his left hand tentatively around Armitage’s cock—there’s no foreskin, just the shaft and then the head, everything hard and hot, his cock smaller than Kylo’s own.

“You’re not wearing underwear,” Kylo breathes.

“You saw me get dressed,” Armitage says unsteadily. “You—you know—yes, Kylo. Tighter, grab me tighter—harder, faster, Kylo—Kylo, more!”

Kylo doesn’t have room to overthink it. There’s only a small range of motion he has access to, because Armitage still has his pants on, and they’re in the way. The angle is awkward, both of them kneeling on the bathroom floor, and Armitage keeps moving, shifting upwards to fuck Kylo’s fist, and Kylo can’t—can’t keep a decent rhythm because he can’t concentrate on anything other than Armitage wanting him back, Armitage thinking about this for weeks, thinking about Kylo for weeks, thinking about what it would feel like for Kylo to touch him, and Kylo’s been thinking about it for weeks too, been thinking about it forever, been thinking about it—

“Footsteps,” Armitage says suddenly, twisting. “Kylo, make me come, Kylo—”

Kylo squeezes hard, strokes Armitage’s dick faster, fist bumping unevenly up and down over the head of his cock. Armitage gasps, bites down on Kylo’s shoulder, and Kylo muffles a groan in his hair, feeling the hot wetness of Armitage’s orgasm all over his fist.

No sooner does Armitage finish coming then he hops up from the floor, scrambles up onto the seat of the toilet. Kylo is too stunned to do anything but sit there. His hand is covered in Armitage’s come, and it’s hot and sticky between his fingers, slightly thinner than Kylo’s own ejaculate and a little more transparent.

“Armitage,” he says.

Armitage puts his finger over his lips just as the door to the bathroom bangs open. They can hear footsteps as someone approaches the urinal, the sound of someone pissing and then flushing, and then water running. The footsteps retreat again, pause at the door.

“If you’re looking for his shirt, it’s out here,” Bala-Tik says.

The door swings shut behind him, and Kylo looks up at Armitage, blinking, his heart pounding in his ears, unsure if he’s supposed to panic now, if this means they’re going to get kicked out, if they’ll have to—

Armitage giggles, muffles it with his hand. “You’re a mess,” he says fondly, smiling down at Kylo from his perch up on the closed toilet seat. “Come on, let’s get you washed up.” He looks down at his bare chest, wipes his fingers across the spatters on his stomach. “Me too, I guess.”

“Holy shit,” Kylo breathes. “I can’t believe I got to touch you.”

“I can’t believe I held out that long,” Armitage says. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“No, you’re not,” Kylo says. He closes his hand carefully so he doesn’t make a mess on the floor. “Was I okay?”

Armitage reaches over, rubs his knuckles on Kylo’s cheek. “Course you were,” he says. “I’m shocked I was even able to get it up again after…earlier.”

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut. He’s half-hard again, and his ears are burning under his hair. He stands up slowly, knees a little sore from the awkward position. Fumbles with the lock on the stall, and then just as he’s opening it, Armitage touches his arm.

“Hey,” he says. Some of Kylo’s come is still glistening at the corner of his mouth. “Thank you. For—for everything.”

“Always,” Kylo says. “I…” He tries to get his thoughts into the correct order—but by the time he’s settled on what to say, Armitage has snuck past him into the bathroom proper, is running one of the bathroom sinks and wetting paper towels to wipe himself down with.

Armitage looks fucking gorgeous like this, standing bare-chested at the sink wearing his black moccasins and skinny jeans, unzipped and peeled open. Kylo can see his red-gold pubic hair reflected in the mirror, can see the base of his softened cock before the mirror cuts the rest of the reflection off. Armitage’s nipples are still peaked, and his chest is flushed.

“How’s your hand?” Armitage asks steadily.

“My—oh,” Kylo says, reflexively tucking it behind his back. “It’s fine.”

“Promise me you’ll take a look at it later tonight?” Armitage asks. His mouth twists. “I’d offer, but I’m—”

“It’s fine,” Kylo says. “I’ll look after it.”

“Well,” Armitage says. He takes a deep breath, and exhales, fogging the mirror in front of him, and wiping it away with his fingertips. “For what it’s worth, I am—”

“Please don’t apologize,” Kylo says. “You don’t—we don’t—we can’t choose our families.” He crosses over, carefully puts his hand on Armitage’s waist, right on his bare skin, and then tips his head down to press a kiss to the freckles on Armitage’s bare shoulder. “I’ll always have your back, if you’ll let me.”

Armitage sighs, leans his head against Kylo’s, and doesn’t say anything.

 

Kylo showers first that night, comes out of the bathroom in his boxers, towelling off his hair. “Hey, did you want to—”

“I had to,” Armitage says abruptly. He’s staring at his phone, face up on the bed, and his knees are pulled into his chest, with his arms wrapped around them. “I had to, Kylo. It’s the—it’s the only way to make sure he doesn’t come back here again.”

Kylo exhales heavily, counts to ten in Latin under his breath before speaking. “You left a message?”

“Texted,” Armitage says miserably. “He’s—he’s my father, Kylo, what choice do I have?”

Kylo thinks of his own father, of nights spent sitting on a sticky casino floor with a glass of juice that had long since dried up, of knowing how to count cards before he knew how to spell. “I support you,” he says.

Armitage exhales, ragged. “Could you just…no, it’s stupid.”

“Yeah?” Kylo asks.

Armitage closes his eyes. “If you wanted to hold me…”

Kylo drops his towel on the floor, crawls into bed beside Armitage. “All you have to do is ask,” he says softly, gathering Armitage up and pulling him in closely. “For anything.”

Armitage turns toward Kylo’s chest, shudders against him. His breathing is ragged at first, nearly silent for seconds at a time before he gasps against Kylo’s skin, and then is silent again. He’s still holding back, and Kylo aches for him, but instead of saying anything, Kylo just rubs his back, making sure Armitage knows he’s here.

(Armitage is still wearing Kylo’s shirt, and it’s far too big on him.)

By the time Armitage settles, his breathing easing out into the steady rhythm of sleep, it’s almost eleven. Millie is curled up on one of the pillows, Armitage is curled up in his arms, and the throbbing in Kylo’s right hand has finally started to subside.

Kylo rolls onto his back, closes his eyes. Opens them again a moment later when the room is suddenly brighter than it should be. He reaches down to find whatever was glowing—

It’s Armitage’s phone. There’s a new notification.

Kylo turns the phone over so he can’t see the screen, and slides it gently under the pillows.

Whatever it is, they’ll deal with it in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE SPECIFIC CHAPTER WARNINGS  
> \- around the middle of the chapter, things go sour  
> \- in the midst of discussing sex, Armitage suddenly goes pale and asks Kylo to leave the table  
> \- Kylo leaves, and goes to calm down in the hallway by the bathroom  
> \- he hears, through the wall, the sound of a man yelling, and realizes partway through the man is yelling at Armitage  
> \- Kylo runs back out into the bar, and intercepts Brendol, who has backed Armitage up against a wall  
> \- Armitage haltingly introduces Kylo as his fiance  
> \- Kylo tells Brendol to stop, multiple times  
> \- Brendol laughs, realizes that the bunnyhug Armitage is wearing is Kylo's, calls Armitage a name (implied homophobic slur, the slur is not present in the text), and grabs at the bunnyhug  
> \- Kylo punches Brendol in the face, breaking his nose  
> \- Bala-Tik sends people over from the bar to pull Brendol out  
> \- Kylo decides to stay with Armitage  
> \- Armitage is panicking  
> \- Bala-Tik offers to get security cameras, etc  
> \- Armitage touches Kylo's neck gently, and just says he needs some time, and heads out to the back alley  
> \- Kylo goes back to their table, and the chapter continues onward  
> \- (Armitage does come back, don't worry)
> 
> END NOTES  
> \- Armitage specifically put the engagement ring /on/ in order to jerk off last chapter.  
> \- Armitage mentioned being respectful during his 'campsite' speech a couple chapters back--so if you were wondering wtf Hux was saying when Kylo totally zones out due to how attracted he is to Hux, that's what Armitage was talking about--how it's important to be respectful, leave people better than you found them, etc.  
> \- Armitage's fantasy about being rescued, if you dig into it a bit, is totally an Emperor/Knight thing  
> \- bonus points if you recognize that the, uh, 'sculptural napkin ring' on the still life is totally a cock ring.
> 
> Please, [come to my blog](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/06/09/dtd-chapter-13-breakdown/). It breaks down a lot of stuff that happened this chapter, because this chapter was a pretty major culmination of a lot of foreshadowing, and there's a lot of behind the scenes information that you might be interested in.
> 
> Also, if you want to come and yell at me on various assorted platforms, that's cool too.


	14. fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage's phone rings.
> 
> He answers it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's some chapter warnings for this--there's a Brendol phone call, and the inherent warnings and homophobia that come along with it, and some references to unhealthy drinking, though neither of our main characters are drinking in this chapter.
> 
> As always deadsy did my beta edits, and valda did my copyedits, and the remaining mistakes are all mine.
> 
> (Also, there might have been some issues with emails last week? I'm not sure. But doublecheck that you read chapter thirteen prior to this chapter, if your emails were wonky.)

_—clumsy just like your mother weak and thin and useless do you actually think this is how this works you just change your number I know what you’re like I know what you’re like I KNOW I KNOW—_

Armitage snaps awake, panicking, heart pounding, one hand immediately going to his hair to smooth it back, the other to yank the covers up to cover himself in case his shirt has slipped down, have to be decent, have to be—

Brendol isn’t here.

Millie is staring at him from the end of the bed, and Kylo is snoring beside him, and Brendol isn’t here. Brendol isn’t here, and Armitage is safe now—except that his phone buzzes again, and he realizes, now, what it was that woke him. The insistent buzz is coming from underneath his pillow even though he’d left his phone at the foot of the bed, and Armitage reaches underneath, pulls it out.

He weighs the benefits of answering now versus delaying the time it’ll take him to get out of bed and go to the bathroom, and determines that it’s best if he just—

“Armitage here,” he says.

“Show some respect when you’re talking to your betters,” Brendol snarls. He sounds drunk, though it could be painkillers depending on how hard Kylo hit him. (Could be both, and wouldn’t that be just like Brendol.)

“Sir,” Armitage adds automatically, pushing himself upright and slowly starting to untangle his legs from where they’ve somehow become woven together with Kylo’s. Kylo’s legs are bare, and Armitage wishes he would stop doing that, because it’s hard not to think of him, hard not to think of the way his body looks, hard not to—

“What the _fuck_ ,” Brendol slurs, “is the point of that stunt you were trying to pull earlier?”

“I’d never intended for you to meet him like that,” Armitage says evenly.

“A common thug,” Brendol continues. “A high school boy that you’ve—”

“He’s twenty-two,” Armitage snaps, voice rising. He forces it back down to a whisper. “I don’t appreciate your insinuations.”

“Temper, temper.” There’s a swish of liquid, and then something being set down heavily on a nearby surface. Ice cubes clinking against a glass.

Drinking, then. Armitage swallows back the taste of phantom whiskey, puts his hand over his nose by reflex. He can see the look on his father’s face in his mind’s eye, can picture him pacing and scowling—this is the next part of the cycle, the part where he yells for a bit, and then calms, starts to layer on the guilt, the part where Armitage feels smaller and smaller and smaller, but there’s nothing required of him here, he just has to listen and wait, wait and listen.

There’s a heavy weight against Armitage’s thigh, and he shifts uncomfortably to get away from it.

“I suppose you know what’s coming for you,” Brendol says, as though he’s willing to be magnanimous now. “A temper like yours, dating a violent thug like that. I’m sure you don’t need me to connect the dots, you’ve always insisted that you were bright, even though I’ve never seen any evidence of it—how much did you pay him for that, last night? How much did you pay him to—”

Armitage holds the phone away from his ear, and looks down, prepared to shoo Millie off—except it’s not Millie.

It’s Kylo, awake and alert, with his hair wild around his head, and his warm hand splayed over Armitage’s thigh. He gestures toward the phone, and Armitage shakes his head tightly. He wants to get out of bed, but he can’t move without dislodging Kylo’s hand, and he doesn’t really—doesn’t really want to. He doesn’t want Kylo’s hand to be anywhere but on his thigh. (He doesn’t want Kylo to be anywhere but his bed.)

“—are you even paying attention, you brat of a boy? Have you even heard a damn word—”

“Give it to me,” Kylo says in a low voice.

“—don’t pretend he’s there, Armitage, you owe me answers—”

Armitage squeezes his eyes shut and hands the phone over to Kylo. Instantly, Brendol’s voice fades into an indistinct rumble, and he can no longer distinguish the individual words.

(His stomach twists and his eyes burn. It’s four in the morning and it’s too early to cry, but that’s exactly where this is going, because he hasn’t had a chance to talk to Kylo about anything, because he spent last night following his dick right back to Kylo, the same way he’s been doing since April, since Kylo had first proposed this fucking stupid plan to him. It’s four in the morning, and Armitage wants to walk out into the street and just keep walking, but he’ll never be able to get away from his own self, which is the thing he wants to escape most of all.)

Kylo stares down at Armitage’s phone for a moment, his big fingers hovering over the screen before he presses a button deliberately, and Brendol’s voice booms out over the bedroom.

“—best not be ignoring me, you—”

“I’m here too,” Kylo says tightly. “You’re on speaker.”

Silence for a few moments.

Armitage gags a little, reaches down beside the bed for the glass of water he keeps there only to find that Millie’s knocked it over at some point, and there’s only a swallow left in the glass. He swallows it down anyway, just to have the moisture in his throat, settles heavily back against the bed, letting his head bang against the wall.

Kylo’s hand squeezes soothingly on his thigh, and Armitage shifts uncomfortably. He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve any of this.

(What he actually deserves is for this whole thing to disintegrate and go up in flames. What Armitage deserves is for his entire life to go nuclear because he’s a piece of shit, because he’s—)

“You mean to tell me he’s actually going through with it,” Brendol says, his voice echoing through the speaker. “You’re not some—actor he’s hired to—piss me off.”

“I’m not,” Kylo says. He sets the phone down and puts his hand back down on the bed, twists at the sheets. “We’ve been engaged for a couple months now.”

More liquid sloshing. Another drink being poured. Armitage can feel his nostrils flaring, and he places his hands carefully on his thighs, fingers flat so that his nails can’t dig in. Kylo moves his hand to cover Armitage’s own.

“I don’t know how you can—”

“I’m not here to listen to another diatribe,” Kylo says sharply. “If you have a reason that you’re calling at four in the morning, you can spit it out. Otherwise, I’m hanging the phone up so my fiance and I can go back to sleep.”

Armitage is shaking his head without being fully aware that he’s doing it. He can taste blood in his mouth. He’s bitten through his lip again, and there’s a distinct roaring sound in his ears.

“Well, then,” Brendol says, in the oily tone that he uses when he’s pulling something over on someone, which is a funny tone to use for Kylo, seeing as Kylo is impervious to social shame of any sort, and even then— “He’s told you of the inheritance, then, I’m sure?”

(Armitage is going to be sick.)

“I’m aware it exists,” Kylo says. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing oddly—in through his nose, and then holding it before exhaling out his mouth. “I supported him through his grief.”

It’s a lie, it’s a fucking lie. Armitage had nobody to support him except himself and his cat—except that Kylo had stood in the alley and watched Armitage recover and never once, as far as Armitage can tell, said a damn word about it to anyone, because Dameron would know about it if Kylo had said anything, and Dameron’s never said a fucking thing to Armitage about it, and it’s entirely possible that Kylo hadn’t ratted Armitage out, and Armitage—Armitage isn’t ready for that.

“So he hasn’t kept anything from you?” Brendol continues, his voice spreading out like an oil slick, floating on the water and drowning out all the life underneath it, black and dense and blocking all the light from above.

Armitage squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again. There’s darkness creeping in on the edges of his vision. He blinks, and it gets worse.

He can’t move.

He can’t speak.

“Not a thing,” Kylo says confidently. “He’s my fiance. He would never.”

Armitage can practically hear the victory in Brendol’s voice. He knows what he would see, if he were there—direct steady eye contact, that slow raise of the glass to his lips. A steady drink, with eye contact the entire time. And then, the fatal shot, point blank, right through Kylo’s heart, and another to the centre of Armitage’s forehead, because god knows he doesn’t have a fucking heart, he doesn’t have a heart at all, there’s no point in shooting him anywhere but the head, because his chest is empty, empty, empty—

“Did he tell you how much he’s getting?” Brendol asks.

 _Don’t say anything_ , Armitage wants to scream, but he opens his mouth and nothing comes out. _It’s nothing, it’s nothing, don’t say anything—_

“Of course,” Kylo says.

Brendol laughs.

“It was right in the—” Kylo hesitates, clears his throat. “I’ve seen documentation.”

Phasma had put it in the contract.

Oh, hell. Oh, fucking hell. Oh—

“So how do you think you’ll pull this off?” Brendol asks. The glass clinks again in the background.

“Hang up,” Armitage says, his voice strangled. “Kylo, hang up.”

“We’ll get married,” Kylo says steadily. “I’ll sign whatever I need to sign, and Armitage will get—”

“Armitage won’t get _shit_ ,” Brendol says triumphantly. “Of course the manipulative useless—”

“Stop it,” Kylo warns.

Brendol snorts in derision. “You’ll punch me over the phone, then? You may as well target your anger at the appropriate place.”

“This is—” Kylo starts.

“It’s not,” Brendol interrupts.

(Armitage can practically hear his grin through the phone.)

“Wha—”

“I can’t believe Armitage hasn’t told you,” Brendol says. “The entire inheritance is null and void if he marries a man.”

And there it is.

Armitage watches Kylo reach over, use his pinky finger to mute their end of the call. Kylo’s hands are relaxed and open. There are no fists.

Kylo turns his head.

Looks directly at Armitage.

“Did you know?” he says softly.

 _I knew_ , Armitage thinks, but he can’t say it.

(It doesn’t matter. He hesitates, and that’s enough.)

“Okay,” Kylo says. He presses his pinky back onto the phone, unmutes it. “I’m aware that’s what you’re attempting to do,” he says, his voice low and even. “But that’s discrimination, and—”

Armitage puts his other hand on Kylo’s, squeezes it tight. (For the last time.) He gently moves Kylo’s hand off his thigh, and pats the back of it comfortingly to cover the way that his fingers are shaking. (Last time for that too.) He swings his feet over to the edge of the bed, foregoes his moccasins just to press his bare soles to the cold floor as he stares into the dark void of their shared walk-in closet. He can feel goosebumps prickling up the back of his legs all the way to his shoulders.

“Tell me, _Kylo Ren_ ,” Brendol says, mockingly. “What have you got, that’s worth Armitage giving up everything, just to have you?”

Kylo is talking again, but Armitage can’t hear him. He stands up, and his knees buckle, but he braces himself on the wall, and then he moves forward. Ten steps, and the drone of Kylo’s voice in the background, ten steps, and he holds his breath through the closet so that he doesn’t have to smell Kylo’s clothes, because he knows his legs will go out from under him if he does. Wonders if he can pack one of Kylo’s shirts when he leaves, sneak it into his things so that he can fall asleep on his air mattress with Kylo’s shirt shoved against his face. He can’t believe he was ever repulsed by the way Kylo smelled, can’t believe that Kylo smelled like _this_ the entire time, underneath that gross scent he used to wear, can’t believe that Kylo is just so _perfect_ and Armitage has just thrown all of that away, thrown it all in the trash.

The bathroom floor is even colder than the floor in the main room. Armitage lies down.

There’s a thud from outside. Maybe something falls over. Maybe it doesn’t. It’s not like it matters.

Armitage shifts and closes the door to the bathroom, bracing his feet against it so that it can’t be opened.

He can feel tears escaping from the corners of his eyes.

Fuck it, let them.

 

A few minutes after that, there’s a quiet knock at the door.

“Are you okay?” Kylo asks softly.

“Not particularly,” Armitage says.

“Do you want company?”

“I don’t know why you’d want to be near me,” Armitage says. He’s using his proper accent again. He might as well. It won’t harden him up any—it never has—and it’s going to hurt _so badly_ when Kylo guts him, which is going to happen right away, because his father has just laid him bare in front of a man that he may have—he may have—he could have grown to—he might already—he—in front of—in—

_Kylo_

“…I do,” Kylo says softly. “May I—may I please come in?”

Armitage slowly pushes himself into a seated position, presses his back up against the far wall. Pulls his knees into his chest. “Okay.”

The doorknob turns slowly, opens gently. Millie comes in first, trots over to Armitage and up onto his lap. Kylo comes in after, sits down on the floor beside the door. He’s turned on the light from the closet, and it streams across the bathroom floor, but not quite far enough to illuminate Armitage. He’s carrying a blanket and Armitage’s cellphone nestled safely on top of it. After a moment, he sets them gently down on the floor, pushes them toward Armitage. The phone is screen-down.

Armitage takes the blanket first, wraps it around his shoulders. (It doesn’t stop his hands from shaking.) Takes the phone, and flips it over, expecting the screen to be shattered, the frame to be twisted, the phone to be—

It’s fine. Pristine condition.

“I didn’t block the number,” Kylo says. “I figured—you could decide. If you wanted to, or how you wanted to—handle it.” He looks like shit. Looks miserably, awfully sad.

“Thought it was broken,” Armitage says. He runs his finger over the screen, and then holds down the button on the side to turn it off, waits for the screen to go black before he pushes it to the side.

“I’d never throw yours,” Kylo says. He runs his hand back through his hair, plays with his ring. “I mean,” he says, staring down at the ring.

(Armitage expects him to take it off, to slide it off his finger and throw it out, but he—he doesn’t, just spins it around and around and around.)

“Mine’s fucked,” Kylo says, haltingly. “I gotta patch the drywall over by the breakfast bar. Go back—go back to therapy, I didn’t think—” He takes a deep breath, exhales long and slow. “Anyway. This isn’t about me.”

Armitage laughs, high and cold. “Of course it is,” he says, once he catches his breath. (He’s blinking rapidly, trying to clear his vision. Everything is blurry.) “I fucked you over. I promised you—oh, fucking hells, I promised you _so much money_ and I knew right from the beginning neither of us were getting a fucking cent of it and—Poe told me about your loan debt, and the mortgage on this place, and the hours you used to work, and—why are you looking at me like that?”

Kylo’s face has gone grey, mouth slack.

“Kylo,” Armitage says, voice cracking. “Kylo, why are you…”

“I don’t have loan debt,” Kylo says. “I don’t—the mortgage isn’t—and I quit, I...”

“Poe told me about it,” Armitage says. “Months ago, before—before _this_ , I figured that was why you’d—why you’d negotiated the percentage with me…”

Kylo’s mouth is open, jaw hanging slack.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Armitage asks. He buries his hand in Millie’s fur, tries to ground himself.

“You swore you’d looked at it,” Kylo says. “Armitage, you. Armitage, you _promised_ me you’d looked at it.”

“At what?” Armitage says. The ringing in his ears is back. He hopes he doesn’t pass out.

(He prays he does.)

“The contract,” Kylo says softly. “Armitage, you said. Armitage. Y-you. Y-you s-said.” His breathing is uneven, his voice unsteady, his eyes sliding back and forth and never looking at Armitage, not once.

“I did look at it,” Armitage says, and the lie slips off his tongue like butter sliding off a hot knife.

“You said _neither of us_.”

“It affects us both,” Armitage snaps. “The lack of inheritance affects us both—”

“But it doesn’t,” Kylo says. He sniffs. “I didn’t know—you said. You fucking _promised me_ , Armitage, that you read it. That you knew.”

Armitage inhales and finds that he can’t speak.

“I told you I made modifications,” Kylo says miserably. “You—you told me you looked, I—”

“No,” Armitage says. “Bullshit.”

(His ears won’t stop ringing.)

“Where is it?” Kylo asks. He gets to his feet, runs his hand back through his hair again. “Where’s the contract?”

(His hair is still wild around his face, mussed from sleep and standing out in places instead of the soft waves his hair usually falls in. Armitage wants to—he wants to fix it, wants to run his hands through it, wants to—wants to—)

“It’s—it’s in the closet,” Armitage says. He still can’t think. His ears are ringing. He doesn’t think he can feel his hands, but has no way to tell whether or not he can feel them, since if they’re numb, he would just feel—nothing.

“I don’t want to dig through your stuff,” Kylo says. He’s staring into the closet. “Can you give me directions?”

Armitage blinks, and wipes the back of his hand across his face. “On the shelf, closer to the bed, underneath the fuzzy robe.” It’s not like it matters. He’ll have to pack all this shit up anyway. He’s going to be leaving. “There’s a box there with paperwork in it. Yellow envelope.”

Kylo comes back, holding it in his hands.

(He doesn’t say anything about the robe. He must not have unfolded it. Or maybe he’s just saving it as a weapon for another time, sticking it up his sleeve so that he can shank Armitage with it later. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he doesn’t care about that, but he _does_ care about the contract, so this entire thing becomes something that Armitage could have kept, if only he’d started it off the right way, but now that he’s started it wrong, this is all he’s ever going to get—)

Armitage’s hands are shaking when he opens the envelope. He tips it, lets the contract slide onto his lap.

He doesn’t want to look at it.

(Kylo has retreated back to the other side of the bathroom, sitting down in the doorway now, and he’ll probably just start inching his way back out into the closet. Maybe he’ll start packing Armitage’s things _for_ him.)

Armitage thumbs through the bottom right corner of all the pages. It’s the same as it was the last time he looked at it—every single page initialled and dated by Kylo. Nothing done by Armitage, because he’s never looked at the fucking thing, hasn’t done anything more than cursorily glance through it—

“You have to open it,” Kylo says unevenly. He’s sitting on the floor again, rubbing one foot against his other, his hands in his hair. “Armitage, please—”

Armitage does. He flips the contract open, looks at the pages. Kylo’s additions start early—ruler-straight lines, going right through entire sections, every single deletion dated and initialled. Everything to do with money is—crossed out, eliminated. Everything to do with money is gone. Phasma had written the contract exactly how Armitage had requested she write it, and thrown in STI screenings and a bunch of other questions besides—but everything to do with money has been crossed out.

Kylo has been doing this—

Kylo has been—

Kylo—

"I did it for you," Kylo says softly. "I thought—the entire time, I thought you knew that I was just doing it for you.”

“Kylo, don’t,” Armitage says, and his voice cracks and breaks and shatters. “Kylo. I.”

“You promised me you looked,” Kylo repeats. “I—if I had known you hadn’t looked—”

“You wouldn’t have done any of this,” Armitage says softly.

“I wouldn’t have changed anything,” Kylo says. “I wouldn’t have— _Armitage_.”

Armitage closes the contract, sets it aside.

It didn’t—none of it—Kylo just—

The whole thing has been—

Everything—

(His nails are digging into his thighs through his pyjama pants. He can’t remember how to unclench his hands.)

“Wow, this is fucked up,” Kylo breathes. “Like, holy shit.”

Armitage can’t respond. His chest aches. It hadn’t been about money for Kylo. It hadn’t been about money the entire time, and _Armitage didn’t even know_ and now Kylo knows—now Kylo knows everything about Armitage, from his homophobic father to—to the way he reacts to stress, to—to the whole stupid thing he has with blood and the way that he flinches and freezes when things get violent, and—and Armitage doesn’t know anything about Kylo, because he’s been wrong about everything right from the very start, because he was—he was wrong about Kylo’s motivations, and he was wrong about Kylo’s sexuality, and he was wrong about—

“Oh, fuck,” Kylo says. “The sex.”

Armitage rests his forehead on his knees.

“Was it all obligation sex?” Kylo asks. “Was it—was it because I signed the contract, and you thought—you thought you owed me?”

Armitage looks up at him.

Kylo’s face is drawn and his mouth is half-open and his eyes are so fucking wide. He’s mimicking Armitage’s posture, knees pulled up to his chest. His ears are visible under his hair.

“No,” Armitage says.

Kylo visibly relaxes. “Okay, because—”

“I mean, yes,” Armitage corrects. “Kind of. I mean.”

Kylo has rolled his shoulders forward, hunched into his legs. His chin is on his knees, and he’s staring at Armitage, and it—hurts, somehow. It hurts so much.

“I always,” Armitage says, and then he stops. Swallows. Presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and looks up at the bathroom ceiling, like maybe staring at the ceiling is going to make this easier somehow. “I always…I always have sex with the people I live with. The whole…thing you accused me of at the bar. The pity blowjob.” His lip curls, and he hates it. He hates himself. “I, uh. I do that. It’s, uh. It’s a habit.”

“Oh,” Kylo says. “Oh,” and everything inside Armitage shatters into a million pieces, and it’s not like a broken vase, because those can be put back together. This is, like—everything disintegrating into ashes, and then blowing away.

“Look,” Armitage says. “I’ll just…I’ll move out.”

“All of it?” Kylo asks.

“Of course I’ll take all my things—”

“No,” Kylo says, and then repeats it again, quieter. “No. Not the—not the things. The sex.”

Armitage blinks up at the ceiling to clear his vision.

“I want to know about the sex,” Kylo repeats insistently. “I want to—” His voice cracks. “I want to—I just—was it all obligation sex?”

“No,” Armitage snaps, because he can’t fucking handle the way Kylo’s voice is breaking, because he can’t handle that fucking tremor, because if Kylo starts to cry then Armitage is lost forever and he’ll never be able to fucking _stop_ , because the only chance he has at not devolving into full-out _sobbing_ in front of Kylo is because Kylo isn’t a crier, because Kylo is able to keep it in. “Don’t start,” he says, still staring at the ceiling. “I can’t—I need you to not start, okay?”

Kylo sniffs, and Armitage looks over at him just in enough time to watch him wipe the snot off his nose with the back of his hand, and the revulsion is what Armitage needs to be able to swallow his own tears back.

“Okay,” Kylo says. “I—I won’t. I just. Okay. I get it.” He grabs the edge of the bathroom counter, pulls himself to his feet. “I get it.”

“It wasn’t with you,” Armitage says, because he has to say something before Kylo leaves, and he’s too shell-shocked from Brendol torching everything again that he doesn’t have any way to change the subject, or steer the conversation in a different direction. “I never—I never didn’t want to, with you. The sex has been great, and I’ve fucking loved every minute of it, and I’m going to—I’m going to miss it when I move out. I’m going to miss _you_.”

Kylo hesitates at the bathroom door. He’s facing away from Armitage, and Armitage just—looks at him, because if he can’t stare at Kylo’s ass now, what the fuck is the point? There’s not going to be anything else after this—Armitage trapped him into a fake contract, forced himself into Kylo’s apartment, preyed on Kylo’s innocence, and held the promise of money over his head, except that Kylo never cared about the money from day one, and Armitage doesn’t know how to—he can’t—he just—it’s—

(He’s staring right at Kylo’s ass and he can’t even fucking _see_ because his vision is too goddamn blurry from his fucking eyes _leaking_ all over the place, even though that instinct should have been trained out of him years ago, because it’s manipulative and shitty and that’s just—that’s just who Armitage is as a person, and—)

“I like living with you,” Kylo says steadily. He hasn’t turned around. “I would miss you if you left.”

“Well, I guess we’ll both be miserable, then,” Armitage says.

Kylo turns around and leans against the doorframe. “That’s fucking stupid,” he says sullenly. “That’s stupid.”

“This whole _thing_ is stupid,” Armitage says.

“Well, why the fuck did you say yes, then?” Kylo asks. He crosses his arms over his chest, and he looks fucking huge, and Armitage would crawl to him _right now_ , would crawl to him and curl up on those rough bare feet, calluses and all. “If you knew it was bullshit the entire time—if you knew you weren’t getting the money—when I came to you with that fucking stupid-ass proposal to get fake engaged, why didn’t you just tell me to fuck off? You told me yes, Armitage. You said yes.”

“Because I’m a shitty fucking person,” Armitage snaps. “I’ve been staring at your hands and your face and your ass for the better part of two years. You caught me when I was weak and you offered me something that I wanted, and nobody ever—nobody ever—I never—not anything that I _want_ , Kylo. Not ever.” He’s crying now. He’s fucking crying and he didn’t mean to start because he’s not going to be able to stop, and of course—of course Kylo just gets to see everything, of course Kylo gets to see every single piece of him that he always means to hide, of course Kylo—of course Kylo just. Gets this. Kylo gets this because Armitage would give him everything even though none of it’s good enough, Kylo can just—take everything—he won’t want it anyway—not now that he sees, not now that this is how they started, with lies and lies and lies—

“Can I touch you?” Kylo asks softly. “Please, Armitage, it’s fucking killing me to watch you without comforting you, can I just—let me hug you.”

Armitage shakes his head no, but his mouth says _okay_ anyway, and Kylo sinks to his knees and crawls over to him, picks Armitage up and pulls him into his lap even though Armitage is entirely too tall for it, and it’s awkward, his head is—his head is crammed into Kylo’s shoulder and he can’t get his breath, and he can’t calm down, and—Millie is moving around in his lap like she wants to leave and he wouldn’t blame her, she should go, they should all just go—

“You gave me that contract,” Kylo says slowly. His voice is muffled against Armitage’s hair, his hot breath going down the back of Armitage’s neck. “You wrote up an entire contract for a fake engagement that you _knew_ wasn’t ever going to pan out.”

“I didn’t write it,” Armitage mutters.

Millie shifts around again, _mrows_ unhappily.

“You what?”

“I didn’t write it,” Armitage says, scrubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, and moves his legs to let Millie escape. “I gave it to Phasma. Bought her a bottle of vodka and lent her my cat in exchange.”

Kylo stares at him. “…that’s why you were so weird about the peeing in a cup thing. You didn’t—”

“It’s an STI test, Kylo,” Armitage snaps, and then, inexplicably, he starts to cry again.

“Shit, no, baby,” Kylo says, and he pulls Armitage close again. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here, I’m here.”

“I wish you weren’t,” Armitage says, but he’s fucking lying as he says it, sobbing so hard he can hardly breathe, and probably none of the words came out properly, but it doesn’t seem to matter if they did or if they didn’t, because Kylo doesn’t pull away from him, just rubs his back with his big hand, and doesn’t say anything else until Armitage has swallowed it back again, gotten control of himself.

“All the times you said this wasn’t gonna work out,” Kylo says, once Armitage is breathing normally again. “I thought—I thought you were just being hard on yourself for being an asshole most of the time.”

“I _am_ an asshole most of the time,” Armitage says shortly. “That part wasn’t a lie or an exaggeration.” He pushes himself back out of Kylo’s lap again, but keeps his feet tucked into the space between Kylo’s crossed legs, puts his hand on top of Kylo’s so he can run his thumb along the back of Kylo’s left hand. (The right is still bandaged, but the right is also just resting on Armitage’s leg, curled gently around his calf, and it’s comforting. Kylo is safe.)

“When were you going to tell me?” Kylo asks softly. His eyes are wide, and slightly damp looking, and he looks so sad that it physically hurts Armitage to look at him—so Armitage keeps looking, because he deserves this. He deserves to hurt. He deserves this to hurt as much as possible.

“Always just kind of assumed I’d get pisstanked and blurt it out,” Armitage says. It’s not the truth, it’s not even anywhere close to the truth—but the truth is that he might have just doubled down on being a piece of shit and never fucking said a goddamn thing to Kylo until Kylo held out his hand for the money and it wasn’t there—and that’s not something about himself that he wants to examine too closely. (Except he knows, now, that Kylo’s hand wasn’t ever going to come out—and what would have happened to them then? What would have happened with this?) “Guess the old man beat me to it. He’ll love that—fucking up my entire life one more time.”

Kylo’s eyes darken. “You could press charges if you wanted to. Harassment.”

 _Right, and watch Brendol turn around and press charges on you?_ “Not bloody likely, I’d rather just drop it.” Armitage reaches for the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand, starts working it off his finger even though it’s warm, and it’s conformed to his body.

“Don’t move out,” Kylo blurts suddenly.

Armitage looks at him. The ring is off, and his hand is naked, and it’s fucking hilarious because he goes weeks at a time without wearing his iron ring, and less than five seconds after taking Kylo’s ring off, he already wants nothing more than to put it back on.

“Don’t move out,” Kylo repeats. He reaches for Armitage’s hand, holds it in his, squeezing. The ring is in Armitage’s palm, and Armitage can feel it bending and yielding under the pressure of their combined hands. “Don’t—please, I still—I don’t want you to go.”

“I’m a liar,” Armitage says evenly, even though he wants to scream. “I’m a liar, and a cheat. I scammed my way into your bed with the promise of money that I didn’t have, money that I wasn’t ever going to be able to give you—”

“Don’t go,” Kylo repeats. “I can’t—I want—”

Armitage reaches down to detach Kylo’s hand from his, and Kylo surges forward into him, lips crashing into his and teeth clacking together. One of Kylo’s arms is wrapping around Armitage’s shoulders, and Armitage opens his mouth—

—and Kylo’s tongue is right there, and holy _fuck_ is it good, and he moans without meaning to, stupid body betraying him again because why can’t he just be _sensible_ when it comes to Kylo, why is everything so fucking complicated all the time—

Kylo’s other hand is wandering up Armitage’s leg, and Kylo’s pulling Armitage in close, squeezing him tight before pulling away, gasping, and burying his face in Armitage’s neck. “I meant what I said,” he mutters, running his hand up Armitage’s leg and around to his hip. “I’m not gonna let him hurt you, I’m gonna protect you, I’ll never let him call you again, I’ll get you a new phone, you can change your number again—”

“Take me to bed,” Armitage gasps. “Kylo, take me—”

And then he freezes, realizes what he’s doing. Realizes what he’s prolonging if he does this. (Realizes that he can’t do this again. He can’t just let this happen again. He’s tricked people into relationships before, and he can’t do that to Kylo, Kylo has no idea what the fuck is even going on, he can’t—he can’t do this to Kylo, he can’t—)

“Fuck,” Armitage mutters, and he reaches down, moves Kylo’s hand off his leg. “No, I’m not going to—I can’t keep doing this.”

“Why not?” Kylo asks, voice trembling. “I—I want you to, d-don’t you want to?”

“I am an awful person,” Armitage says tightly, getting up from the floor and stepping around Kylo to get through the closet and back into the main room before he stops. He’s staring at the bed. At the bed they’ve been sharing. “How the fuck don’t you care that I _lied_ to you? It’s been months, Kylo.” Months of them—sharing a bed and kissing, months of Armitage letting Kylo grind up against him, months of slowly getting to know that monstrous cock, months of—

(It’s only going to take him twenty minutes to throw all his things back into bins. Twenty minutes to pack up his things and move out and get the fuck out of Kylo’s life, start rebuilding somewhere else where his father can’t find him, as long as it’s somewhere that Kylo can’t find him either.)

Armitage exhales heavily, and it sounds like sobbing even though he’s done with that.

Kylo is behind him. Armitage doesn’t need to turn around to know. He can _feel_ it, can feel Kylo looming there, and it takes less than a second for Armitage to step sharply backward, and then he’s pressed up against Kylo, his back to Kylo’s chest, and he can feel Kylo breathing.

“It never should have started like this,” Armitage says.

“I don’t care,” Kylo murmurs into his ear. He presses his dry lips against Armitage’s hair. “I don’t care how it started, Armitage. It doesn’t matter how it started. Everything is on the table now.” His hands are on Armitage’s hips. “We can just—we can just keep going forward from here. It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“I’m not comfortable with that,” Armitage says, and his voice has gone all shrill again. He presses the heels of his hands back into his eyes, tries to force his voice to modulate better. “I’m not comfortable with that,” he repeats. “I’m not—I don’t—we can’t—we can’t start like this.”

“Yes, we can,” Kylo says reassuringly.

“I _like_ you,” Armitage says miserably.

Kylo doesn’t respond.

Armitage shifts away from him, and Kylo lets him go. He walks forward to the storage tub he’s been using as an endtable, cleans his glasses, puts them on, all without ever looking back at Kylo—and then he regrets it because looking back is the first thing he does once his glasses are on his face, and Kylo is—Kylo is just staring at him, and he’s _beaming_ , his eyes all damp and lit-up and his crooked teeth showing.

“No,” Armitage says. His stomach twists, and he feels light-headed. “Kylo, no, I can’t—Kylo.”

Kylo opens his mouth and he doesn’t even say anything, he just keeps grinning. He runs his hand back through his hair, cocks his hip and leans against the doorframe. “Armitage,” he says.

“No,” Armitage repeats. “I can’t—no. Not when we started like this. We can’t—we can’t undo that. We can’t undo that this is based on—that this is based on a foundation of _lies_ , and I’m not—I’m not a real person, I’m not—I’m cardboard, I don’t—I can’t—Kylo, Kylo, you fucker, you can’t—don’t make me—”

“You look like a real person to me,” Kylo drawls. “You _feel_ like a real person to me.”

Armitage brings his hands up, covers his face, backs up until his legs hit the bed and he sits down, sits down before he falls down. He’s vaguely aware that he’s smearing his glasses, and can’t bring himself to care. He can’t stop himself from shaking. He can’t slow down his brain. He’s going to start—screaming, or crying or—or something horrible, because he can’t do this, he can’t make this work, he can’t—not when he has—not when he feels—not when Kylo—not when this isn’t the first time that things have fallen apart like this—

 _Look, buddy, why did you get into a relationship when you’re not capable of being a person? You can’t—you can’t just come home with me, and fuck me, and move in with me, and then tell me—tell me that you don’t have feelings, that you’re not capable of feelings, that you can’t—I’m fucking trying here, I’m trying, buddy, I offered you a fucking_ job _and you’re just—you’re just_ not ready _for that? That’s too much_ commitment _for you?_

_Dameron, I—_

“I have an idea,” Kylo says. “If you want.”

Armitage looks up at him. Blinks, tries to get his vision to resolve.

The expression on Kylo’s face has shifted. He’s still leaning against the doorframe. (He’s still only wearing his boxers.) His face is—softer now. Gentler.

Armitage wants to curl up into him, and then never uncurl, but he can’t, because Kylo deserves be—

“It doesn’t involve any feelings,” Kylo says. “It’s a good idea.”

He just looks so fucking _earnest._

“I’ll just go,” Armitage says.

“I don’t want you to,” Kylo says simply. He pads over on his bare feet, sits down at the other end of the bed.

There are two feet of space between them.

“I like you too, Armitage.”

“There’s nothing to like,” Armitage says acidly. He unclenches his hand, stares down at the ring sitting on his palm. It’s off now, it’s off, and that means—that means this is off too—so why is Kylo acting like this, why is Kylo—

“That’s what your father said,” Kylo says intensely. “And your father is an abusive piece of _shit_.”

“So?” Armitage snaps. “He was right about me.” He swallows. He knows what he needs to do. He just needs to—finish this, cut it off, stop it now, before it gets even worse, because he’s already way deeper into this than he was into anything else, including that ill-fated thing with Poe that had just about wrecked both of them, and left the relationship between them acidic and raw—well, left _Armitage_ acidic and raw, because Poe’s fucking _fine_ , because Poe is _always_ fine, just like Kylo will be fine once Armitage has left him—

“He was _not_ ,” Kylo insists. “I’ll get a lawyer, I’ll get you a fucking lawyer—”

“I don’t _want_ a lawyer,” Armitage snaps, and his voice has gone all to shit again. “I just.” Fuck, he shouldn’t say this. He _knows_ he shouldn’t say this, just the same as he knows that he’s going to say it anyway. “I mean you didn’t. You didn’t even want my money.”

Beside him, Kylo’s breath catches.

(His hand has been creeping closer and closer to Armitage’s thigh—but it stops, now, just shy of the fabric of his pyjama pants. They aren’t touching, and it’s better this way.)

“Why didn’t you want my money?” Armitage asks plaintively.

Silence.

“Uh,” Kylo says. “I, uh. Well. It’s yours, and you deserved it, and I figured you probably had plans for it.”

“Why didn’t you want it?” Armitage asks. _It’s all I have to offer_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. _It’s the only thing I have that I can give you, except that I don’t even have it and I never did._

“It’s your money,” Kylo insists stubbornly. “Just because your dad is—a fucking homophobe doesn’t mean that you’re not entitled to—”

“Why didn’t you want it?” Armitage asks. “You signed it all away. I wouldn’t have—I wouldn’t have done that, if I were you.”

“Uh,” Kylo says.

“I would have taken _everything_ ,” Armitage continues, knowing that it’s true all the way down to his fucking bones. “Why didn’t—why didn’t you want my money?”

“I didn’t care about the money,” Kylo says finally.

“…past tense,” Armitage says, hating how petty he sounds while also knowing that that’s exactly who he is as a person. “You do care now?”

Kylo looks away. “I only—I only care that you’re not getting it.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Armitage says. He doesn’t have the energy to put a snarl into it. “You didn’t care about the money before, when you were being all—all _nice_ about it, and giving it up, but now that it’s not coming, you’re all—you’re all—”

Kylo flinches back a little. “You’re being cruel. I misspoke, I mean that I don’t—”

“I told you—”

“Look at this place,” Kylo says sharply. He gestures to the apartment. “It’s got floor to ceiling windows and really good light and I’m—I’m an undergrad, Armitage. I’m just—pissing around taking electives, and you know that, because you tell me all the time, and I just—I’m okay, here, I don’t—I didn’t—I didn’t need your money. I don’t need your money. I wanted _you_ to have it.”

“You work in a coffee shop,” Armitage hisses. “You work in a coffee shop—”

Kylo mutters something.

“—and they don’t pay you shit because I check payroll every week so I know exactly how much—”

“This isn’t my _name_ ,” Kylo says, in a way that makes it sound like he’s repeating something he’s already said.

“What?”

“I mean, it is,” Kylo says. “But I. I changed it.”

“I don’t fucking care about your—”

“It’s Organa,” Kylo says. “Originally.”

Armitage scoffs at him. “Right, Organa. Like Leia Organa, owner of _Resistance—”_ He looks over at Kylo, and Kylo’s expression hasn’t changed. “No.”

“My mom,” Kylo says, staring down at his feet. “We’re, uh. Estranged, but that’s—that’s my fault, I was pretty fucking shitty.”

“No,” Armitage repeats.

Kylo shrugs one of his shoulders, and pulls at the sheets on the bed, rubbing them between his fingers. “I mean, I’d always meant to change my name, because I can’t, you know. _Do Art_ and also have all this—other shit come up when you search my name, I don’t want everybody all about—my _mom_ and whatever, and my _background_ , and—my mom deserves to have some space, and—”

“Leia Organa asked you to—”

“No,” Kylo says. “Fuck no, she never asked me to do anything, I just—I thought it was a favour, something nice I could do for her…so I changed it…”

“It’s a studio apartment,” Armitage says dully. “You’re Leia Organa’s son, and you’re working at a fucking coffeeshop, and you’re living in a studio apartment with no furniture?”

“I like the windows,” Kylo says defensively. “Look, Armitage, I don’t—I don’t want to talk about the money if it’s going to upset you, it’s just that I—I never needed yours, okay? And I’m fucking sorry that I never told you that verbally so that you knew. I trusted you to read the contract, since I knew paperwork is really important to you, and you—you just didn’t. And I didn’t know.”

“Because I’m—” Armitage starts—and then he stops, and swallows, and just—says nothing. Stares at his hands. Thinks about his father, and the money that he’s known he wasn’t getting the entire time, and the things Armitage made Kylo do in pursuit of money that he thought Kylo needed, when it turns out that Kylo is just fine without him, that Kylo has maybe _always_ been just fine without him, and Armitage is the one that’s needy, Armitage is the one that’s broken, Armitage is the one who—

“Hey,” Kylo says softly. “Hey, hey. Can I—here, let me.” And he wraps his arm around Armitage’s shoulder and pulls Armitage in close, buries his head against Armitage’s neck, and rocks him gently. “I can fix this,” he says softly.

“I just need to pack my things,” Armitage says. He should finish the sentence— _I’m moving out, go date other boys_ —but he can’t open his mouth any further, because now Kylo’s hair is in it, and it tastes of Armitage’s own shampoo, because Kylo’s apparently been using it, and it’s just—

“Not if you don’t want to,” Kylo says, and Armitage can feel Kylo’s hot breath on his neck. “I can make this fair. I can sort it out.”

“I fucked this up so bad,” Armitage mutters.

“I mean, yeah,” Kylo says. “You kind of did, but—I can fix it, you just gotta give me a chance, Armitage.”

He doesn’t _want_ to give Kylo a chance. He’s given Kylo too many chances already. This is all so fucking _horrible_ , and Kylo not even wanting his money is literally the worst thing that could have happened, worse than the phone call this morning, worse than the confrontation yesterday afternoon, worse than—worse than even having Brendol as a father, this is—

“One chance,” Kylo repeats. “I can do this. You’re going to be really proud of me.”

“I’m an awful person,” Armitage says dully. He shrugs his shoulder, and Kylo immediately moves his arm away, so Armitage flops back onto the bed.

After a moment, Kylo flops down next to him. Without saying anything, he digs into Armitage’s clenched right hand and pulls out the engagement ring, and then slips it back onto Armitage’s finger, pressing it down firmly. “I don’t care,” he says.

“I’m a liar,” Armitage says. “I’m manipulating, I’m conniving, I’m—”

“I don’t care,” Kylo breathes into his ear.

“—people can’t stand to be around me—”

“I like being around you,” Kylo says. “I don’t care about the other stuff, honestly, I don’t.”

Armitage shuts his mouth, pulls back a little to look Kylo in the eye. “Are you serious right now?”

“I promise I am,” says Kylo. “I mean, yeah, you lied about the inheritance thing, which is kinda fucked up—but also, your dad is an abusive piece of shit, and also, if you’d looked at the contract like you said you did, we would have had this discussion months ago instead of—instead of now, and we would have gotten through it months ago, so there’s no reason we can’t just get through it now…”

Armitage swallows. “And the—the other thing?”

Kylo furrows his brow.

“Being around me,” Armitage says. It fucking hurts to say it, does Kylo have any idea how much it hurts to ask? He never asks direct questions like this, because he’s always terrified of what the answers are going to be, is terrified of what the outcome will be, it’s just—

Kylo chuckles.

Armitage bristles immediately. “Well, if this is all a big fucking joke to you, then—”

“No, no,” Kylo says quickly. “It’s not a joke, I swear it’s not.” He reaches out and cradles Armitage’s face in his hands, and then kisses him gently. “It’s not at all,” Kylo says, lips moving against Armitage’s mouth. “I’m way happier being around you than I am any other time, and I just—I just want us to work through this.”

“We’re going to—have to break up,” Armitage warns, kissing Kylo back even though he doesn’t mean to, just because he wants to, just because he wants—everything, he wants absolutely everything _still_. “You deserve—a real relationship, not—not something that’s fake.”

“This doesn’t feel fake to me,” Kylo whispers, and then he moves to Armitage’s neck, kisses him gently, and then nips at him with his teeth, and Armitage whimpers despite himself.

(Kylo’s breathing is picking up, and, traitorously, Armitage can feel his own body start to respond.)

Kylo shifts over to Armitage’s shoulder, bites down, and Armitage gasps, and then moans.

“Kylo,” he breathes. “Fuck, Kylo—”

“And I bet,” Kylo says, his words starting to get unsteady. “I mean, if you—like, if I—if I try to do something real—I don’t know what I’m doing. I bet I’m still terrible in bed.”

(Kylo moves in closer to Armitage, thrusts up against his thigh, and yeah—it’s clumsy, and it’s awkward, and Armitage moans in spite of himself because he wants more of it, for fuck’s sake. He wants more of _Kylo_.)

“You are,” Armitage says breathlessly. He’s kissing Kylo back on those perfect lips of his, winding his hands through that beautiful hair. “You have so much—to learn still—”

“Teach me,” Kylo breathes, and he drags his hand down Armitage’s side, tugs at the waistband of his pyjama pants. “Teach me how to be good for—oh, yes, _that_.”

 _Oh, yes, that_ is Armitage’s palm against the front of Kylo’s underwear, fingers curled in around Kylo’s cock. It’s so fucking hard, hot even through the fabric, and Armitage is enjoying everything about this so much—Kylo’s lips on his, Kylo’s cock in his hand. Kylo’s tongue is everywhere, like it usually is, and Armitage kisses Kylo repeatedly and firmly, trying to get Kylo to tighten up his mouth a bit, be a little more deliberate with his tongue—and there, Kylo starts to get it, and things get so much better, because this is what Armitage wants—Kylo’s tongue in his mouth, Kylo’s face pressed against his, Kylo’s cock, hard in his hand. This is so much like every other grinding session they’ve had—

—except that this time, Kylo’s hand is fumbling for Armitage’s cock, pressing inside Armitage’s pyjama pants, clumsy and awkward so Armitage takes pity on him, rolls onto his back and elevates his hips, pulls everything down, and then rolls back to Kylo and puts Kylo’s hand right on his naked cock.

(Kylo’s hand is wrapping around the base of it, and the tension is—wrong, he’s too tentative, he’s too—)

“Fucking grab it,” Armitage hisses, and he punctuates the statement by squeezing Kylo’s cock firmly. “It’s not going to break, Kylo.”

Kylo squeezes, clumsily, and Armitage sees stars. It’s a mess, this is all such a fucking mess, he should have stuck to his original plan and just—moved out instead of lying here on the bed letting Kylo—letting Kylo do anything he wants, and Armitage can already feel all of his resolve crumbling because Kylo is wonderful, Kylo is learning quickly, Kylo is—Kylo is a series of firsts that Armitage has already taken, and more yet that haven’t been touched on, and Armitage wants them all, he wants them all, he wants every single first that Kylo is going to give him, and the seconds and the thirds on top of that, and Kylo, the fucking idiot, is just standing there opening his chest for Armitage and exposing his heart and he’s going to end up hurt, they’re both going to end up hurt, this is all going to end so _badly_ —

“Shit, Armitage, I’m going to come,” Kylo says, panting. “Fuck, your hand, it’s just—and your cock, I can’t believe—Armitage, holy fuck, I’m going to come—”

“Of course you are,” Armitage says. “The way you fall apart in my hands—beautiful, it’s so—yes, Kylo, yes, come for me!”

And Kylo does, gasping and panting, thighs twitching and hand spasming where it’s still gripped around Armitage’s cock, half on his underwear and half on his abs, and Armitage strokes him through it, not even protesting when Kylo rolls over onto him and kisses him, sloppily.

“Sorry,” Kylo breathes. “That was a terrible handjob on my part.”

Armitage rolls his eyes. “You also just smeared your come on my shirt.”

“Oh, fuck,” Kylo says, immediately rolling away. “Shit, Armitage, sorry.”

Armitage looks down at his shirt, at the wet smear across the bottom, and then quirks his mouth, and pulls his shirt off over his head. He dabs at the remainder, and then tosses the shirt over to Kylo. “Here, clean yourself up.”

“I can’t use your _shirt_ ,” Kylo says in horror. He gets up off the bed, and then picks up Armitage’s dirty shirt. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”

(It’s just that Kylo is such a _mess_ , and he’s fucking beautiful, and Armitage wants to—Armitage wants to stay. It would be easy to slip back into the same routine.)

“Where would I go?” Armitage asks rhetorically. He’s feeling lazy, in the aftermath of Kylo’s orgasm, and he’s gotten used to how soft Kylo’s bed is. He’s not—he’s not mad about staying here, especially not if Kylo is just going to walk around in his ratty boxers like that, and let Armitage quietly judge him from the bed. He waits until Kylo is in the bathroom, running the water—probably washing out Armitage’s shirt, if Armitage is going to be honest about it—and then he reaches down to pull his pyjama pants back up over his half-erect cock, and realizes that there’s come smeared on the waistband of his pyjamas as well.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, and he yanks his pyjama pants off, folds them so that the stain is at the top. He’ll have to wash them out later, do another load of laundry—or maybe he’ll just toss them in with Kylo’s things, if he’s—if he’s going to be staying.

Armitage touches his cock lightly, leans over and drops his pyjama pants on the floor. If he’s going to be staying—if Kylo actually wants him to stay—

From the closet, Kylo clears his throat.

Armitage looks over at him. “What?”

“Uh,” Kylo says. “It’s just.”

Armitage looks down. His cock is hard, standing up against his stomach.

Kylo shakes his head a little. “I never, uh. I never got a good look before.” His tongue darts out and laves over his lips as he stares. He’s wearing a fresh set of boxer shorts now, but hasn’t bothered to put any other clothing on, and the constellations of moles covering his body are absolutely fascinating.

“You didn’t, uh,” Kylo says. “You’re still hard.”

“I was focused on you.”

“Right,” Kylo says, licking his lips again.  He’s still staring. “Fuck, I wasn’t thinking…”

Armitage self-consciously curls his hand around his cock, strokes it just to watch the way Kylo’s eyes follow his hand. Two orgasms in … twenty four hours is plenty enough for Armitage, and he would be fine just leaving this here—but he doesn’t want to say that in front of Kylo because he likes the attention, likes the way Kylo watches him, and he doesn’t want—he doesn’t want to discourage it in any way.

“Can I come lie down with you?” Kylo asks.

Armitage wrinkles his nose. “It’s your bed, Kylo.”

Kylo walks over and lies down next to Armitage—and, after a moment, Armitage lies down next to him as well, stretches out just to see if Kylo will watch him—and Kylo does, stares at the whole length of his body, his tongue darting out to wet his already spit-wet lips.

“Your armpit hair is red,” Kylo says in awe. He reaches out and pets at it with the tips of his fingers.

Armitage rolls his eyes. “You’ve seen my hair, Kylo, what did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” Kylo says, flushing a little. “I just. You’re really. Wow.” His other hand—his bandaged hand, though the white wraps Bala-Tik had put on him have been replaced by a series of bandaids with cartoon characters on them—is touching Armitage’s arm, gently.

“Nice bandaids,” Armitage says dryly.

“They’re all I had,” Kylo says. He’s still staring at Armitage’s cock.

“It’s just a cock,” Armitage says gently. “The circumcision doesn’t make it _that_ much different than yours, Kylo.”

“Seems a lot different,” Kylo says. “You’ll have to—you’ll have to teach me how to be good with it.”

Armitage blinks. “Teach you how to be good with my cock?”

“Yeah,” Kylo breathes. “There’s a lot of stuff I need to—learn to be good at.”

“Like reading text messages?” Armitage asks archly, unable to miss an opportunity to poke at Kylo a little.

Kylo blushes harder. “I didn’t—yeah.”

(And there’s something about Kylo, when he looks like this—post-orgasmic and slack-jawed, staring at Armitage’s cock—and he keeps staring, even when Armitage casually wraps his fingers around it, gives himself a long, slow stroke just to see if Kylo is still interested—)

“Why don’t we talk about that?” Armitage suggests. “That’s a nice conversation topic. Why did Kylo Ren, he of the disciplined and engaged study schedule, come home early from class on a Friday afternoon?”

“Oh god,” Kylo says. He runs his hand back through his hair, and his ears are burning bright red. “Do we have to?”

Armitage stills his hand. “No, not at all.” He grins wickedly. “But I’ll keep touching myself if you keep confessing.”

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut, and then opens them again. “Okay, uh. You sent those pictures.”

“Those weren’t even sexy,” Armitage counters. “That’s, like, not even Sexting 101.”

“It was the first time anyone’d ever…look, I didn’t even know I could get picture messages on this phone.”

“It’s a smartphone,” Armitage says, squeezing the base of his cock just to watch Kylo’s eyes widen. Fuck, it feels good to have Kylo’s attention like this. “Of course it gets picture messages.”

“But nobody sent them to me prior to you,” Kylo says. He looks like he’s torn between staring at Armitage’s cock, or at his face, and it pleases Armitage to see that—a pleasure that he can feel, distressingly, in his chest instead of in his groin, which is exactly the wrong place for that kind of pleasure to be forming. “You’re the only one—and your face was all—”

Armitage pulls his fist from the base of his cock all the way to the head, runs his thumb over the tip. A drop of precome oozes out, and Kylo stares at it, enraptured, watches as Armitage smears it on his thumb, and then brings his thumb up to his mouth, licks it off. “What was my face like, Kylo?”

“Flushed,” Kylo says. “You looked—hell, I don’t know, I thought maybe …”

“You skipped class,” Armitage says. “You never skip class.”

Kylo looks away for a moment. “I had to, I was—Christ, I had to hold my backpack in front of myself just to get out of the lecture hall as it was, Armitage, how the hell was I supposed to focus on class when I was just thinking about you?” He flicks his eyes up to Armitage’s face for a moment, and then looks back down at his dick. “Anyways, I missed the scare quotes on your _sick_ comment, so I figured I’d, like, come home and tuck you into bed.”

 _You could have tucked me into bed alright_ , Armitage thinks, but he doesn’t say it, because he can see the way that Kylo is shifting around, and that’s usually the precursor to him being overwhelmed or undone by something—and anyway, Armitage has gotten about what he wants out of this conversation, which is an understanding of how he’d affected Kylo, and a reason why the hell Kylo’d come home that early. He’s just about to shift the topic—suggest that they adjourn this discussion, and maybe Armitage can lounge in his pillow nest and jack himself off leisurely that way, or maybe Kylo would lie down and Armitage could perch on top of his hips, stroke himself off over Kylo’s abs, or maybe—but Kylo, for some reason, keeps talking.

“And I couldn’t—I thought for a second you were sick, because I could hear you moaning in the bathroom, and by the time I realized you weren’t, I was already—already in the bedroom, and I just—I didn’t know, Armitage, you kept everything so close to your chest.”

Armitage doesn’t miss the way that Kylo’s hand is wandering down to his own underwear again, the way he presses his palm against his dick. Armitage slides his own hand down his cock, touches his balls gently. He’s not close to orgasm, not really—but it feels good drawing it out like this, especially when Kylo keeps talking, voice low with that odd cadence of his that Armitage is finding more and more arousing by the day.

“I thought you were just—tolerating me, or that it was—funny somehow.” Kylo’s breathing has picked up, just a little, and it’s throwing the cadence of his words off even further than what it is normally. “I didn’t know until—the other day—that you were even getting off on this, and it’s—so much all at once, I can’t believe I get this, how do I get this?”

“It’s nothing,” Armitage mutters, slowing his strokes, suddenly embarrassed again at everything Kylo had overheard, and without having consented to it in the first place, and Kylo’s ears now are still flaming red, he’s still shifting around like he’s uncomfortable, and Armitage did that, Armitage made him that way. Predatory indeed, predatory and vindictive, taking advantage of a fucking virgin who hadn’t so much as had a first kiss until Armitage had come along and stolen it from him—

“You said my name,” Kylo breathes, and he thrusts up against his own hand, hard enough now that it’s visible through his underwear. “When you were—when you were touching yourself, you said my name.”

 _I was fucking myself on your cock_ , Armitage thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. “I said your name,” Armitage repeats, and he watches Kylo shudder with it.

“You said my name,” Kylo mutters, and he thrusts up against his own hand again, the movement distinct and deliberate. “I wanna—I wanna get off again, Armitage, I want to—but I want you to—how do you—”

Armitage smiles, slow and predatory. Kylo’s words are falling all over themselves and that’s a good sign, that’s such a good sign, it means that Kylo’s really into it, and that’s always good for Armitage. Before Armitage overthinks it too much, he rolls back onto his back, lowers his voice deliberately. “Do you want to come on me?” he asks.

Kylo’s eyes widen. “Holy shit, yes. Um. Where?”

“On my tits,” Armitage says, and Kylo flinches. “Chest,” he corrects, watches the way Kylo’s shoulders untense when he does. “Right on my pecs, it’ll be so good for me.”

“Will it really,” Kylo breathes. He reaches down and yanks his underwear down in one tug, dick smacking back against his stomach.

Holy hell, Armitage cannot get over the size of the thing. He strokes his own cock long and slow, right where Kylo can see it. Kylo’s breathing heavily, scrambling to get his underwear off his legs and then get up on his knees, clumsy in all the ways that really get to Armitage, clumsy and sloppy and stunningly beautiful, legs long, arms long, hand wide and big around that thick dick—

“D’ya want me to kneel?” Kylo asks.

“Yeah,” Armitage says, stroking his own dick languidly. “Whatever’s most comfortable for you, alright?”

“This is good,” Kylo says, shuffling until he’s kneeling beside Armitage, stroking his cock over his own thighs with his ass resting back on his heels. His eyes keep moving—Armitage’s face, Armitage’s dick, Armitage’s belly.

Armitage reaches up with his other hand, strokes his nipple, arching his back a little in response to Kylo’s groan. Speeds up the pace of his hand a little bit just so that he can come shortly after Kylo does, just because he’s feeling—oddly generous now that he knows that Kylo doesn’t want him to move out, knows that Kylo wants him to stay, just a little bit longer—

“I’m going to teach you so many things,” Armitage says, just so that Kylo knows—so that Kylo remembers, this isn’t permanent, this isn’t anything except making sure that Kylo is a good boyfriend for somebody else, making sure that nobody else has to deal with this—fumbling, the sloppiness of it all, the way that Kylo’s eyes glaze over and he pants with his mouth fully open, tongue visible, big and thick and wet. Armitage pinches at his nipple, claws at his own chest, his fingernails briefly scoring red marks into his own flesh—

Kylo is cursing, a long low string of them, some completely unintelligible, and it’s possible that some are in entirely different languages—

“Up on your knees,” Armitage commands. “Right over top of me, I want it to land on me.” He arches up again, deliberately this time, arches up and moans one of those stupid terrible pornography moans that he can’t ever stop himself from making, and Kylo gasps—

“I’m going to come,” Kylo says, but it’s useless for him to have even said anything because he’s started coming before he’s even opened his mouth, his semen white and thick and more copious than it should be considering that he’d just come not that long before, spattering across Armitage’s chest like a Jackson—

“Fuck,” Armitage mutters, more at the mental comparison than anything else, this is what Kylo has driven him to, this is what Kylo is forcing him to be, the kind of pretentious wanker who’s comparing a load of jizz to a Jackson Pollock—

Kylo’s leaning down over him, kissing him, mouth entirely too wet and tongue like the rest of him, big and clumsy and awkward.

“I want you to come,” Kylo says, and then starts kissing him again, open-mouthed, tongue thrusting inside Armitage’s mouth, and Armitage feels completely _devoured_ by him.

Armitage tries to move his head to free his mouth so he can tell Kylo that he’s nowhere near close, that it’s going to take him far longer than this, that he didn’t even _need_ to come in the first place, he’s already come twice in a twenty-four hour period and—

Kylo puts his hand on Armitage’s chest, palm slipping in his own semen, smearing it across Armitage’s nipples, and Armitage gasps and moans and comes, back arching up into Kylo’s palm and heels spasming against the bed as he scrambles trying to get some purchase, trying to thrust up into his own hand and push against Kylo at the same time.

It’s one of the most graceless orgasms Armitage has ever had, and by the time he comes back to himself, panting, Kylo is cradling Armitage in his arms, breathing obscenities into his neck, and Armitage can’t even bring himself to mind.

“I promise I’ll fix it,” Kylo breathes into his ear. “Promise me you’ll stay.”

Armitage opens his mouth to protest.

“Please say yes,” Kylo says.

“I shouldn’t…” Armitage says. He bites his lip, looks over at Kylo.

Kylo is devastated, and Armitage—Armitage can’t.

“Yes,” Armitage says. “Of course I’ll—yes.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, Armitage. Holy shit.
> 
> There's a lot of discussion of, uh, everything that just went down [over here in the blog post](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/06/16/dtd-chapter-fourteen-breakdown/).
> 
> You can also come yell at me in the comments, or on tumblr or twitter, or wherever you would like to get your yells out.


	15. ten dual commandments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo waits for Armitage to settle down, and then tells him about The Plan.
> 
> (It's a good plan! There's no feelings involved in it at all!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are--chapter fifteen, and seven left to go after this.
> 
> As always, this chapter was beta'd by @deadsy, and copyedited by @valda, and any remaining mistakes are mine.

Kylo slowly wakes up Sunday morning, rolls over without thinking about it—and Armitage’s side of the bed is cold and empty.

Kylo’s eyes snap open. “Armitage?”

There’s a soft thud from the closet, and Millie pads out into the room, yowling loudly at Kylo.

“Oh, good,” Kylo says. “You’re still here. Let’s get you fed, huh?” He gets out of bed slowly, eyes scanning over the room to see if anything is different.

(Outside of the hole in the drywall where he’d thrown his cellphone through the wall yesterday morning, everything looks the same.)

Kylo feeds Millie while he makes himself tea. He still can’t handle the tarine stuff Armitage drinks—it’s so bitter that every sip makes him feel like his mouth is inverting—but he’s been working his way through a stash of miscellaneous teabags that he’d taken from the dorms in his first year, and so far, it’s been okay. He checks the cupboards while he drinks his tea, but Armitage’s things are all still here, exactly in the same places he left them.

When Kylo goes into the bathroom to shower before getting started on the laundry, he notices that all of Armitage’s toiletries are out. The boxes that are normally under the sink— _the sex toy boxes_ , Kylo thinks, and he blushes—are instead stacked on the counter, and Armitage’s shaving bag is stacked on top of that, and it’s the kind of thing that would be really easy to just sweep into a box, if one were planning on leaving.

Kylo showers, dries off, gets dressed. When he goes back into the bathroom to grab all the towels for laundry, he also takes a few minutes to put Armitage’s things back on the shelves and in the cupboards where they belong.

 

When Armitage gets home later that night, tired-looking and a little ragged around the edges, he heads right into the bathroom and runs a bath, stays there for two hours before finally emerging. When he comes out, he exhales in satisfaction and collapses onto the bed.

“Sheets smell good,” he mutters.

“Thanks,” Kylo says, and since Armitage doesn’t say anything else, Kylo doesn’t either.

 

The next morning, Armitage’s things in the bathroom are still where they normally are, but there’s an open box next to the closet, and a couple stacks of Armitage’s clothes next to—but not _in_ —the box.

Kylo scowls at the pile of clothes—but he either has time to tidy up, or he has time to make a thermos of tea for Armitage. He doesn’t have time for both. He opts to make tea, stewing about it the entire time.

(The clothes are still there when Kylo gets home, so he puts them back in the closet where they normally go. He’s curled up in bed with his journal, writing, when Armitage finally gets home—and Armitage looks at the box, side-eyes Kylo, and doesn’t say anything—so Kylo doesn’t say anything either.)

 

When Kylo gets home from the gym on Wednesday, he can hear Millie yowling from the staircase before he’s even opened the door to the apartment.

“Hey, hey,” he says soothingly as he fumbles with his keys. “Hey, hey. I’m here now, baby.” He opens the door, and immediately sees the problem—all Millie’s things have been packed up, and she’s yowling at the box, which she’s managed to shove against the wall.

Kylo takes off his shoes and comes over, crouches down next to the box. “Did he pack up all your things?”

Millie jumps up onto Kylo’s back, perches on his shoulder, and Kylo winces, shifts his weight so he doesn’t fall over.

“Well, here,” Kylo says. He pulls the box away from the wall, opens it up, and reaches inside for one of the toys. “You want the mouse?” He tosses it across the room, watches it arc up in the air and then slide against the bookcase.

Millie doesn’t move off his back, kneads her little paws into the top of Kylo’s shoulders.

“Okay, what about this little squeaky thing?” Kylo holds it up, and then tosses it across the room.

Millie yowls in his ear.

“Okay,” Kylo says. He sits back on his butt, digs in the box for another toy. “Oh, this one has a feather on it. Do you like the feather ones?” He tosses that one up higher in the air, but not as far. Millie ignores it too. “This pink one?” No reaction from her on that one either. “The purple one?” He digs through every toy in the box methodically, tossing them all out for Millie to chase after, and every single time, Millie just kneads her claws into Kylo’s shoulder, and purrs in his ear, and doesn’t move off his shoulder.

Twenty minutes later, the floor is littered with cat toys, the box is empty, and Kylo is pretty sure that his shoulder is bleeding. “How about I feed you, sweetheart?” he asks. “Here.” He reaches up, gently pulls Millie off his shoulder, and sets her down on the floor. “I’ll get you some food, okay?”

By the time Kylo has filled her dish and changed her water, he looks back, and Millie is sitting inside the empty box, purring, and looking very satisfied with herself. Kylo shakes his head, and finds a spot for all her toys on the bottom shelf of his bookcase. By the time he’s done that, Millie is asleep.

Kylo rolls his eyes and goes over to the wall to check on his patch job.

 

He’s just finishing up the last coat of paint on the wall by the breakfast bar when the front door of the apartment opens, and Armitage comes in. Kylo listens to him take off his shoes, rummage in the fridge for a beer, and knock the cap off on the counter the same way he usually does.

“Hey, Armitage,” Kylo says.

“Jesus,” Armitage says. “You startled me.”

“I meant to have this done before you got home,” Kylo says. He sits back and looks at the patch job—adequate, considering he didn’t have any house paint and had to custom blend from his art supplies, especially since Millie has been moving things around and a bunch of his paints are missing—and then gets up off the floor. “Didn’t want to remind you.”

“It’s okay,” Armitage says. He takes another drink of his beer, looks around the apartment, eyes lingering on Millie, asleep in her empty cardboard box. “You cleaned up.”

“I did,” Kylo says steadily.

“You’ve been cleaning up all week,” Armitage says. “After me.”

“Yes,” Kylo agrees.

“…thank you,” Armitage says. “I was—working through some stuff.”

“Okay,” Kylo says. He rinses his paintbrush off, watches Armitage slouch against the breakfast bar.

(Armitage’s bare feet are fucking gorgeous—the toenails unexpectedly shiny, and his feet looking far softer than Kylo’s feet have ever been in his life.)

Armitage hooks his thumb in his belt loop, takes another drink of his beer. “You won’t need to clean up after me anymore,” he says, after a moment. “I’m done moving stuff around.”

Kylo grins. “Thanks, Armitage.” He opens his mouth to say something else—and then he’s caught, suddenly, by the odd smear on the back of Armitage’s hand.

It looks like it might be paint.

“Were you going to say something?” Armitage asks.

“Nah,” Kylo says, still looking at the back of Armitage’s hand. “I’m just glad you’re settled.”

Armitage shrugs. “It is what it is.” He takes another drink of his beer, hesitates. “I do appreciate what you did for me, you know,” he says. “And I meant what I said before.”

“Oh?” _kylo kylo you’re going to make me come, kylo, you’re going to_

“About rescuing me. Nobody’s ever done that for me before,” Armitage says. His eyes are distant. “Not once.”

_Kylo: Hey, are you still on campus?_

_Armitage: Yes._

_Kylo: It’s Friday!! I’m done class! What are you doing? Should I come visit?_

_Armitage: I’m working._

_Kylo: Would you like to…not be working?_

_Armitage: What do you want, Kylo?_

_Kylo: I have a proposal. Like I was talking about before._

_Kylo: My plan._

_Kylo: And now that you’re settled (ie, done moving stuff around), I think we should talk about it._

_Armitage: You deserve something real._

_Kylo: Well, yeah. I do._

_Kylo: But in the meantime, I think this plan is going to make things better for us both. More manageable._

_Kylo: I think you’ll like it._

_Kylo: And I was wondering if you wanted to meet me somewhere to discuss._

_Kylo: Armitage?_

_Kylo: You’ll come?_

_Armitage: Yes._

_Kylo: Okay, awesome._

_Kylo: Good._

_Kylo: Thanks._

_Kylo: Bala-Tik’s at five?_

_Armitage: Six._

_Kylo: See you then._

Kylo is irritated the moment he steps into the bar, just because of the way Bala-Tik’s eyes slide off of his as Kylo enters. He gets it—there could have been charges pressed against Kylo, or against the bar for not having provided security, or, ideally, against Brendol for being an abusive prick, but as of yet, there haven’t been. (Kylo suspects that Armitage won’t, and this fact is simultaneously frustrating and a relief.) He picks a different table this time—still toward the back, because he doesn’t want their conversation to be overheard—the bar is nearly empty today, like usual, but still—but one where neither he nor Armitage will be able to see the place where Brendol had cornered Armitage, because Kylo doesn’t want Armitage to have to think about that right now any more than necessary.

(He wonders, a lot, if Armitage is actually okay. It’s been a week, and while Armitage seems to have returned to his usual self, Kylo keeps catching him staring off into space more than usual, fidgeting with the hems of his shirts. Kylo has kept his questions to his journal—but it hurts him to see the number of question marks that are trailing his entries these days.)

He can see a different painting from this table—it’s another still life, rotted fruit and a flintlock pistol, and then a scattering of modern-looking bullets. It doesn’t make any goddamn sense, and Kylo kind of loves it. He pulls out his phone and snaps a picture, and then opens a text to Armitage and hunts around until he finds out how to attach an image.

He’s halfway through typing _so I’m totally in love with this_ before he remembers Armitage’s snitty remark about _cultural context_ , and discards the text message. Makes a note to figure out what he needs to learn so that he can have a quasi-intelligent conversation with Armitage about it.

Kylo slides his phone back into his pocket, looks at the table. Okay. He can do this.

He takes off his backpack and sets it on one side of the booth, opens it up, and pulls out the list. It’s protected by a plain manila folder—he’d wanted to buy one of the rainbow ones, but he doesn’t think Armitage would get as much of a kick out of it as Kylo does, so he bought the rainbow folders for Rey instead. Kylo flips the folder open, just to make sure that everything is secure.

It is. He’d handwritten it with his nicest pen on heavy cardstock, and made sure that he had good light while he was doing it, and it still—it still looks good.

Armitage will like it. He’s certain Armitage will like it.

(He really, really needs Armitage to like it. He wants Armitage to smile again.)

Kylo leaves his backpack at the table, unzips his hoodie. He’s made an effort to dress nicely, wearing a button-up shirt that he just bought yesterday (and fuck if it didn’t take fucking _hours_ trying to find something that both fit and looked nice). He’s even yanked his hair back into a bun so that it stays out of his eyes. His ears still poke through a bit, but they do that anyway, and he figures Armitage will maybe appreciate him making an effort with his hair.

Okay. He can do this.

He swipes his phone open again.

_Kylo: Sorry, I got here a bit early. I got us a booth on the right, about halfway down._

_Kylo: It’s pretty much empty here._

_Armitage: I don’t think this is a good idea._

Kylo bites his lip, swallows back his irritation.

_Kylo: Neither was lying about your inheritance._

_Kylo: I would have supported you the entire time._

_Kylo: My turn for paperwork, okay?_

Kylo sighs, rubbing his thumb over his phone screen like he can erase his texts. Printed out like that, all his words look harsh and bitter and shitty.

_Kylo: :) :) :)_

(The smiley faces don’t help.)

_Armitage: I’m on my way._

_Kylo: I’m going to go get you a beer, okay?_

_Armitage: Okay._

Kylo steels himself and goes up to the bar.

 

“So,” Bala-Tik says without looking at him, his gaze never moving from the TV screen mounted above the bar. “You’ve returned.”

“Yes,” Kylo says cautiously. He waits, to see if Bala-Tik is going to bring it up—but he doesn’t, so Kylo just keeps going like last week didn’t happen. “Can I get a pint for me and a pint for Armitage?”

“Sure,” Bala-Tik says, sliding off the counter, and pulling out two clean glasses. “He coming?”

“Yes.”

“He still fucking weird?”

“Uh,” Kylo says, trying to figure out whether or not it’s appropriate to tell Bala-Tik anything.

“Keeps going on about money,” Bala-Tik says, pulling a pint into a fresh glass, dumping the foam out, and then going again. “Won’t shut the fuck up about it, and he’s even sourer than usual.”

“It’s been a rough week,” Kylo says vaguely.

“Tell me about it,” Bala-Tik says, setting the first pint down roughly on the bar, and then pulling the second. “How the hell does he think _I_ feel? Fucks off for a week, doesn’t indicate he’s coming back.”

“I mean,” Kylo says, trying to figure out how to gracefully extract himself from the conversation. “It’s his favourite bar.”

Bala-Tik snorts. “Fucking well better be.”

“Thanks,” Kylo mumbles. He picks up the pints, and turns to head back to the tables.

Bala-Tik clicks his tongue.

Kylo turns, and Bala-Tik gestures with his hand, rubs his fingers and thumb together.

“Oh, shit,” Kylo says, setting the pints back down on the bar and fumbling for his wallet. “Sorry, I’m just used to Armitage’s tab.”

“His tab, yeah,” Bala-Tik says. “Only, that’s for Armitage.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Kylo says. He puts a twenty and a five down on the bar, pushes them over. “Again, I’m sorry—that was really dumb, don’t tell Armitage I tried to do that.”

“Oh, hey,” Bala-Tik says. “Speak of the devil.”

Kylo turns.

It’s entirely unfair that Armitage is coming in just as the sun is coming out from behind the clouds, and his hair is on fire with the light at his back. He’s scowling, and he’s clearly already been home and come back, because he’s wearing his glasses and one of those over-sized sweaters that he loves instead of the button-up and slacks he wore to campus earlier that morning.

“You changed your clothes,” Kylo says as Armitage stalks up to the bar, makes an obscure hand gesture.

“Went home,” Armitage says shortly.

Bala-Tik passes over a shot, and Armitage immediately downs it, takes the second one, and downs it too.

“Got you a beer,” Kylo says.

“Lovely,” Armitage says flatly.

“How did your thesis go?”

Armitage levels a glare on him that is not at all impacted or dulled by his glasses. “Can we get this over with?” he asks.

“Sure,” Kylo says, although he’s starting to doubt his tactic, starting to doubt the entire thing now, is wondering if there’s some way he can just sweep the list under the table before Armitage sees it—

—except, of course, it’s the first thing Armitage focuses on once they go back to their booth, Armitage striding in there like he’s on a mission, and Kylo following behind in his wake.

“What’s this?” Armitage is staring at it like it’s something awful, his upper lip curling in disgust.

“Paperwork,” Kylo says weakly. He sets the pints on the table, slides into the other side of the booth. “I, uh.” He almost blurts out _it was stupid_ and takes the folder back before Armitage can open it—but then he reminds himself firmly that Armitage had an entire contract written for an inheritance that he won’t be able to get without getting lawyers involved, and this is—this is minor in comparison.

“Modified contract, I assume,” Armitage says, pulling the folder toward him with one hand and taking a deep drink of his beer with the other. “I deserve that. I’ve been working on a repayment plan, to get you what you thought you were gonna get, it’s just that I’ve got nothing except what you see here—” He gestures vaguely.

“No,” Kylo says firmly, reaching out and putting his hand over Armitage’s before Armitage can open the folder. “I told you,” he says. “I don’t want your money.”

Armitage flinches like he’s being stabbed, and Kylo rubs the top of Armitage’s hand comfortingly with his thumb. “It’s okay,” Kylo says. “I’m not mad.”

“Sure, you’re not,” Armitage says.

“I’m not,” Kylo says. “Like, I’m irritated at you for not reading the contract when you said you would—but I’m just as irritated with myself for not talking to you about my changes in the first place. I could have saved us a whole fuck of a lot of—”

“Just save it,” Armitage says. He sounds tired, all of a sudden, and he follows that up with slouching against the back of the booth, and rubbing his hands over his eyes. “Let me look at the terms here.” He leans forward again, opens up the folder.

His face goes pale.

“So it’s not a modified contract,” Kylo says, stating the obvious. “I mean, I don’t— _we don’t_ need anything elaborate, just, like, some guidelines, right?”

Armitage says nothing, just continues to read.

(He’s gnawing on his lower lip again.)

“It’s just—even if you wanted to move, it would take you a while to find a new place, because you’ve gotta find somewhere that’ll take Millie, and I know you could move in with Phasma if you wanted to, but also, you don’t have to if you don’t want to—and I was thinking, you know, maybe it’s easier if we have some kind of structure to things, even if—even _when_ you are staying, and I just, I dunno. In case we have a limited amount of time, then I might as well make the most of what I can get, you know? Although obviously the entire thing is consent-based, and you can just cross off whatever you want to cross off—”

“This is a sex list,” Armitage hisses, looking up at Kylo and _glaring_. “You’ve—this is a list of sex items.” His fingertips are drumming at the edge of the paper.

Kylo slouches back into his seat. “I mean, yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is.”

(It had sounded way more glamorous in his head, and seemed way more special when he was writing it down.)

(This is not going as well as he’d hoped.)

He reaches into his hoodie for his journal, tries to subtly put it in his lap—and then gives up, just sets it down on the table, and flips it open to the last page, which contains all the notes he made while he was working through the list. He drags his thumb down the edge of the book, tries to get his thoughts straight.

(He shouldn’t have mentioned Armitage moving out. Armitage had been settled about it, he’d decided to stay—and now Kylo’s just blurted it out again, brought it right back out into the open, and he doesn’t want Armitage to start thinking about it—so he shouldn’t have said anything—he should have— _fuck_.)

“You must write in that a lot,” Armitage says, after a while.

“I mean, yeah,” Kylo says, a little surprised. “I do.”

“There are fewer questions on that page than usual.”

Kylo freezes, his fingers stilling, hand flattening over the text. “Uh, you can—you can read it?”

“No,” Armitage says. “But I watch you writing in it constantly. The percentage of question marks is usually higher.”

“Oh,” Kylo says in relief, moving his hand off the page. “For a minute there, I thought you could read Latin.”

Armitage rolls his eyes. “I’m an engineer, not a med student.”

“You’re an artist,” Kylo points out.

“I’m an engineer,” Armitage repeats. “The art is…well…”

Kylo thinks of Brendol, and how well art might have gone over in a household that was under his thumb. “It’s valid,” Kylo says, his voice edged in steel.

“ _I_ know that,” Armitage says. “And so do you.” He gestures to Kylo’s book. “Go on, ask.”

Kylo shakes his head. “I don’t have—questions or anything. I just…”

(He hopes Armitage will talk to fill the silence—but he doesn’t, so Kylo keeps going.)

“I took notes,” Kylo admits. “So I wouldn’t forget what I wanted to say. I just—I thought, all of the background aside, that you and I are remarkably sexually compatible, and that if you wanted to keep having sex—which, I mean, I kind of got the impression that you did—that you _do_ —then this is a list of the stuff that I want to get taught. It’s not contingent on you living with me if you decide you ever want to move out—but I do want you to stay—but it is contingent on your, uh.” Kylo squints at his handwriting, which had started to degenerate at the end of the page. “Enthusiastic consent, so I thought we could talk about the list today and figure out if any of this was something that you’re interested in, stuff that you might like to do with me, or teach me—you know, so I’m not awful, and—”

There’s a soft thump.

Kylo looks up from his notes, marking the place he was reading from with his finger.

Armitage’s head is on the table, and he’s thumping it quietly, but repeatedly, against the wood.

“What?” Kylo asks. “I thought—you like paperwork, Armitage. You like contracts. You put all the effort into writing a massive one for me _when you knew you weren’t getting the inheritance_.”

“Oh my god,” Armitage mutters. “First, I didn’t actually do that work, and you know it, and second, please stop reminding me. I feel like enough of a predatory shit without you—”

“I like you as a predatory shit,” Kylo interrupts.

Armitage looks up at him, startled.

(Kylo is pretty sure it’s the first time he’s interrupted Armitage, ever—and now that he’s done it, he might as well just go for it, finish his sentence.)

“You’re kind of a prick at work,” Kylo tells him, going straight for naked honesty. “And you’re an asshole at school too. I didn’t even know that you weren’t—that you actually had a personality until this started.”

Armitage sighs, buries his face in his hands.

“I like your personality too,” Kylo hurriedly corrects.

“No,” Armitage says, voice muffled. “You don’t. You just think you do.”

“I’m a virgin, not a child,” Kylo snaps. “For fuck’s sake. Would you stop _wallowing_? _I’m_ the one who got wronged here.” He knows it’s not fair the moment he said it—Armitage is the one who was wronged, Armitage is the one who was wronged right from the beginning—

“I know,” Armitage says quietly. “You think I don’t know what I did to you? I know. I mean, you say you don’t need the money—but what if you had? Christ, that would have been a cu—”

“Please don’t,” Kylo says plaintively. “I just—can we talk about our options?”

“Maybe I should leave,” Armitage says. “Maybe I should—”

“No,” Kylo insists. “You don’t want to, and I don’t want you to, and—no, don’t.” He hesitates, and then says it even though it’s shitty. “Don’t you at least owe me a chance for this?”

Armitage scowls, slouches back against the booth. “Fine. Talk to me about options.”

“Well, there’s this one,” Kylo says. “You snipe at me, I snipe at you, and we’re both fucking miserable. I hate this one, by the way.”

Armitage rolls his eyes.

“There’s the one where you head back to Phasma’s immediately, and take your cat, and we just tell everybody that it was irreconcilable differences.”

Armitage sighs, but doesn’t speak.

“And then there’s this one,” Kylo says, and he pushes the list a little closer to Armitage. “I get something I want, and you feel better because you’re doing me a series of sexual favours.”

“I don’t—” Armitage starts—and then he stops.

“I think you do,” Kylo says. “I think that’s why you chickened out of saying anything. I think you liked the sex.” Kylo leans forward across the table, willing himself not to blush even though he can feel his ears burning. “I think I fit your fetish profile.”

“A fetish profile isn’t a thing,” Armitage says haughtily.

“Look,” Kylo says. “Maybe it’s not. I don’t know the terminology. Whatever. But did you even look at the list, Armitage? I spent a lot of time and effort putting it together—can you please just look?”

Armitage huffs, picks up his pint and takes a long swallow. His eyes keep skating toward the list, and he’s not chewing on his lip anymore.

“Do you want some food?” Kylo asks. “I was thinking of ordering an appetizer platter.”

“Yeah, sure,” Armitage says vaguely, still staring at the list. “Whatever.”

Kylo slides out of the booth and makes a show of looking at the paintings hung on the other wall as he walks toward the bar, just so that Armitage doesn’t see him grinning.

 

When he comes back, Armitage is actually looking at the list, a small furrow between his eyebrows. He hasn’t touched his beer (much) while Kylo was gone, and Kylo hopes, for one glorious moment, that it means he’s done a good job, that Armitage is—impressed with him, or maybe even just satisfied. (He’d settle for Armitage not being disappointed.)

Kylo slides back into the booth and waits—but when minutes creep by without Armitage saying anything, he opens his journal again, takes out his pen, and starts writing, flipping over to a new page so that he can start his to-do list for tomorrow fresh.

“I want it on the record,” Armitage says finally, “that this is a terrible idea.”

“Sure,” Kylo says. “Consider it recorded.” He bites back the comment on how Armitage is going to have a rough time justifying it as any more terrible an idea than the bullshit Armitage had pulled on him—but he doesn’t want Armitage getting all shirty about it again when, really, Kylo just wants to move forward with this, just wants to move forward with everything exactly as it is right now. “I feel good about the possibilities with this one, though.”

“Did you put these items on here in a specific order?”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, starting to get excited about it in spite of himself—like, of course Armitage would look at it and instantly see the pattern, of course Armitage is going to get what Kylo is doing with it, of course Armitage knows.

“And the order is?”

Armitage is staring at Kylo over his glasses, and Kylo automatically shifts in his seat, tries not to blush. “Uh, comfort level. Stuff I’m most comfortable with at the start, stuff I need to work up to at the end.”

Armitage holds his gaze for a few more minutes—a few more ridiculously long minutes—and then suddenly breaks it, looks back down at the paper. He’s reaching for his chest pocket—or, at least, where his chest pocket would be if he wasn’t wearing a sweater instead of the blazer he’d clearly been wearing earlier that day.

Kylo digs into the pocket on his hoodie, and pulls out one of the clicky mechanical pencils that Armitage likes, passes it over.

Armitage looks at the pencil, looks at him. “This isn’t my brand.”

“It’s what the bookstore carries,” Kylo says. “Also, I wasn’t stupid enough to assume that I could just take one of your pencils off your desk or something.” He’s always kind of assumed that Armitage inventories them—and by the look that passes across Armitage’s face as he takes the pencil, Kylo’s pretty sure he wasn’t wrong about that.

“I’m making these notations in pencil,” Armitage says. “I expect you to erase them if you don’t like them, or if you’re not interested.”

“Sure,” Kylo says, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a grin.

“Also,” Armitage says casually, “I wasn’t aware that voyeurism was a thing for you.”

Kylo goes from zero to blushing immediately. “What makes you say that?”

Armitage arches one perfect eyebrow. “You’ve got masturbating on here twice, and you’ve phrased it as ‘Kylo for Hux’ and ‘Hux for Kylo’, so if we’re talking about fetish profiles …”

Kylo takes a drink of his beer, and then sets his pint down, pulls his hair out of his bun and finger-combs it, and then puts it back up again, being careful to hide his ears.

(He doesn’t think it matters, he’s pretty sure Armitage has seen them, burning bright red against his dark hair anyways, but it feels nice to go through the motions.)

“I have a…” Kylo starts, but then he hears the end of his intended sentence— _healthy curiosity about sex_ —and realizes he sounds like a sex ed textbook, so he just lets his voice trail off.

Armitage doesn’t notice. He’s engrossed in making edits in tight, clinical printing.

After a few moments, Armitage passes the paper over.

“You re-ordered some items,” Kylo says.

“I did,” Armitage replies.

“You moved porn up, and you masturbating for me further down.”

Armitage taps the end of his pencil against the table. “I just thought it might be helpful to prepare you for what you’re going to see.”

Kylo blushes again. He has enough of an idea, based on the armful of items that Armitage had brought out of the bathroom, and then quickly thrown a towel over once he’d realized Kylo was there. He takes out his own pen, crosses out Armitage’s adjustment, and renumbers the items back the way he had them. “I want to learn it from you,” he says quietly. “I don’t even know if I care about the porn thing, I just thought it might be nice if you’re away or something.”

“It certainly wouldn’t _hurt_ ,” Armitage grumbles. “You can’t honestly tell me that you’ve never seen _any_ thing.”

“Bits and pieces,” Kylo says vaguely. “In the common rooms when I was in the dorms.” He still remembers it all vividly, how horrifically uncomfortable it all made him, how the imagery made him feel sweat-sick and uncomfortable, how everyone thought he was stuck-up and he let them, because it was better than sitting there pretending he was enjoying it.

“Oh, that shit would have all been straight,” Armitage says. “Straight porn is the _worst_.”

Kylo hazards a glance over at Armitage. “But you … like women?”

Armitage shrugs. “Sometimes. Straight porn is notoriously unpleasant even for those of us who do, though. Trust me, you’re far better off with the queer stuff—or the gay stuff, in your case.”

“I’d watch what you watch,” Kylo says quickly. “It’s whatever, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Kylo,” Armitage says softly. “I like you, okay? But you had a panic attack over _hearing_ me the other day, please don’t try to tell me that it doesn’t matter what you see with your eyes.” He raps his pencil against the list, _tap tap tap_. “Also, you thought I had the dildos in my _mouth_.”

Kylo blushes again. “I told you, I just…”

Armitage lays his hand on top of Kylo’s, squeezes it reassuringly. “Hey, it’s okay,” Armitage says quietly. “Don’t panic—I’m not judging you, okay? You just—you don’t seem like you spend a lot of time on the internet, and you’re really innocent, and I just—need you to assume that it’s going to be more intense than you expect, okay? I just want you to work with me here as we go through this.”

“Okay,” Kylo says, smiling in relief.

_As we go through this._

They’re going to do it.

_As we go through this._

They’re going to go through the list.

“Thank you,” Kylo says. _For everything_ , he means. _For agreeing to stay. For giving me a chance._

Armitage smiles, sits back in the booth and picks up his beer again. “I mean, you weren’t wrong,” he says.

“About what?” Kylo asks.

“I do like paperwork,” Armitage says. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a cigarette and a lighter. “You figure Bala-Tik is gonna get his goons to haul me out of here if I light up?”

“I might haul you out myself,” Kylo says, without thinking about it.

Armitage stares at him for a moment, blinking, and then puts his cigarette away unlit, and says nothing more about it.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, I did hold off on giving y'all a copy of the list for a reason. Sorry about that--but it's going to look way better from Armitage's POV next chapter, trust me on this.
> 
> [Come on over to the blog](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/06/23/dtd-chapter-fifteen-breakdown/), where I break down the pivot point that occurred in this chapter, and also, the many and assorted reasons that Kylo didn't get mad.


	16. right on the edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage's thesis is going poorly.
> 
> Kylo might be able to help with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My endless thanks to deadsy, valda, and splintered_star, all of whom encouraged and supported me through this chapter--and my apologies for the delay on the posting for this. That's on me.
> 
> Chapter warnings for this chapter--brief mention of the prior death of a pet; the remains have subsequently been used in art. I can bootleg you a copy of the chapter without this section if you would prefer--just reach out to me on twitter, tumblr, or email (heyktula on all platforms; the email is a gmail) and I'll send a bootleg your way.

It’s just—right there on the fridge.

It’s five-fifty in the morning, and Armitage is cradling a hot cup of tarine tea to his chest. Sometime between when he fell asleep last night and when he woke up twenty minutes ago, Kylo had revised the list, rewritten the entire thing on a new sheet of thick, cream-coloured paper, and posted it to the fridge, and it’s just—there.

It’s right there.

(Armitage should have said _no_ to this.)

He hears the faint slap of bare feet behind him, and then Kylo is there, behind him, resting his chin on Armitage’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around Armitage’s waist, looping his thumbs into Armitage’s beltloops.

“It’s so _early_ ,” Kylo whines in his ear, voice still thick from sleep. “Come cuddle.”

_I have to go to the studio_ , Armitage means to say.

(“When did you have time to do this?” is what he actually says.)

Kylo nuzzles into his neck, and doesn’t say anything. His breath is warm against Armitage’s skin.

“When,” Armitage repeats tersely, “did you have time to do this?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Kylo says vaguely. “Wanted it done anyway, just so you didn’t forget.”

_Just so you could blindside me with it, more like_ , Armitage thinks—but he holds his tongue on that too, because Kylo’s calligraphy is beautiful, and the deep green of the ink looks lovely against the cream of the paper, and because—

—because Armitage wants to, even though he knows he shouldn’t. Because _2\. Mutual Nudity_ is going to be so fucking _good_ for both of them, because he’ll finally, finally be able to look all he wants, because he can finally _see_ Kylo, and because Kylo will be too distracted looking at him to notice how much Armitage is _staring_ —

(—because the entire list is so vanilla that it’ll be totally fine for Armitage, there’s no way he’s going to develop any more feelings for Kylo this way. Because _4\. Blowjob, Kylo giving_ is going to be absolutely laughably awful, and Armitage will definitely be able to detach then, if he hasn’t managed to detach before—)

Kylo nips at Armitage’s neck, and Armitage inhales sharply, spilling a bit of his tea over his hand. Kylo bites him again, a little harder, sucking a bit, and Armitage feels his knees start to weaken, even though—

“Kylo,” he warns.

Kylo chuckles in his ear, hugs him tightly and plants one more kiss on his neck. “I know,” he says, voice still rough from sleep. “You gotta go to…whatever you’re doing.” He unhooks his thumbs from Armitage’s belt loops, and pads back to bed, the bed creaking a little as Kylo gets back into it. “No, come back,” he says to Millie, voice soft. “It’s okay, I’m here now, you can come cuddle me.”

Millie’s purring echoes from the bedroom straight into the kitchen.

(Armitage can still feel the ghost of Kylo’s morning wood pressed up against the crack of his ass. Kylo was just—walking around with that, like it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t make a difference. Like he was fine to just go back to bed, like he didn’t actually _need_ Armitage, like he didn’t—)

“Kylo?”

“Yeah?” Kylo says, immediately sitting up, and running his hand back through his hair. “You need something?”

_Fuck_ , too much. “Thought I’d give you a goodbye kiss, if you wanted,” Armitage says, trying to bring the situation around to something he has a modicum of control over.

“Yes,” Kylo says instantly, beaming. He lies back in bed, and Armitage walks right over to him without even thinking about it, tugs the covers up around Kylo’s shoulders and kisses him right on his mouth, those soft lips yielding immediately to his, Kylo’s tongue right there pressing against his, and it’s, just—

“Mmm,” Kylo says softly, eyes already shut. “Night, Armitage. See you later.”

Armitage is already halfway to campus when he realizes that Kylo’s statement makes no sense because it’s morning—and he doesn’t even care, because he just— _augh_.

He’s in a foul mood by the time he arrives at his studio.

(He’s so off-kilter from the list and Kylo and that fucking kiss that his thermos of tarine tea is still on the kitchen counter. He refuses to go to Resistance to buy something to drink. He’ll just be thirsty.)

 

It’s not a good week. It starts out badly. It doesn’t get better.

He’s not making progress on his thesis. He _can’t_ make progress on his thesis, but he keeps showing up anyway, because what the fuck else is he going to do?

Millie is furious at his earlier attempt to pack up her things, and is snubbing him in favour of Kylo, who is not nearly as contrite about it as he should be.

He has a meeting with the curator for the campus art gallery to discuss how _Starkiller_ will be displayed, and it’s all he can do to answer her questions evenly. He focuses on _Starkiller_ itself, the technical requirements of having it hung, and the lighting requirements for the rest of the gallery, and when the curator suddenly notices they’re out of time, he makes a face and flips through his previous notes as though he has other items to discuss, goes through the motions of setting up another meeting that he’ll reschedule later, because there _is_ nothing else. There’s absolutely jackvshit. He’s going to hang _Starkiller_ from the ceiling, and then there’s just going to be white walls, and a gallery so empty it echoes.

People are staring at him in the hallways, staring at him while he smokes out back of the arts building, staring at him as he walks around campus. Always watching.

(It’s not until Bala-Tik looks at Armitage, rubs his own neck, and then looks at Armitage again that Armitage thinks to look in the mirror—and sure enough, with his shirt unbuttoned like this, the irregular collar of bruises Kylo has left on him is very obviously visible. Armitage washes his hands, but doesn’t bother doing the top couple buttons of his shirt back up. It’s not like Bala-Tik doesn’t know. It’s not like Bala-Tik cares. It’s not like it _matters_.)

 

“It’s shit,” Armitage says into his phone later that week. “The entire thing is shit. I can’t—everything is just—redoing my old work, but worse. I don’t have it in me, but where the fuck am I supposed to go from here? If I’m not—if I’m not doing this kind of shit, then what the fuck is the point of even doing a thesis? They took me into the program on a—on a fucking special case thing, and I’m not—I’m not producing, and none of this is any good. It’s all fucking pretentious garbage, and every time I look at my written statement, I want to torch the entire thing.”

Kylo makes a murmuring noise of encouragement into Armitage’s ear. “Want me to take a look at it?”

“You’re an undergrad,” Armitage snaps. People around him turns to look, and he aggressively ignores every single one of them, because _fuck_ them. “Look, what could you possibly—”

“I mean, maybe nothing,” Kylo says. “But you’re a year into this, you can’t just quit. The thematic elements of it are good. The visuals you showed me are fucking amazing.”

“What if they don’t want it,” Armitage complains. He’s nearing the edge of campus, finally, which means that he can keep stalking home without a bunch of people harassing the shit out of him, or staring at him, or whatever. It’s going to be nothing but the anonymous bustle of the city for the rest of his walk—and Kylo’s voice echoing in his ear. “What if they don’t want it, and they just—kick me out of the program, bury my body out behind the dorms.”

Kylo chuckles darkly in his ear. “We’d better get married first, so I can get custody of your cat.”

“You can’t have Millie,” Armitage snaps.

“Well, then, don’t let them bury you out behind the dorms,” Kylo says. “Somebody’s gotta look after that cat of yours. She was into my paints again, did I tell you?”

“Oh?” Armitage asks, pulling his greatcoat more snugly around his shoulders.

“I don’t even know where she’s putting them, they just come and go, and then sometimes she dumps all the tubes on the floor just so she can lie in the container.”

“You can tell her to get the fuck out,” Armitage suggests.

“I would _never_ ,” Kylo says, aghast.

“Well, that’s why she does it,” Armitage says. “She knows you won’t say no.”

“Aw,” Kylo says. “She’s a good cat.”

“She’s a terror,” Armitage mutters. “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you,” Kylo says, sounding a little distant. “Here, come on over this way, come cuddle? Yeah, come on up here. Did you want to talk to, uh.” There’s a pause. “To Armitage?”

“Are you stoned?” Armitage asks sharply. It would explain a lot—like the part where Kylo _sounds_ fucking stoned, and Armitage can just picture him, lying flat out on that ridiculously soft bed, eyes half-lidded and movements blurry.

The chuckle that echoes over the line _definitely_ sounds stoned.

“Nah, yoga,” Kylo says. “Phasma’s orders. I was wobbly when I got out of the gym anyways, and I’ve been doing this for an hour, and my body just feels super fucking weird. Like, I hit that weird meditating headspace? And maybe I stayed in a couple of the positions too long?”

“You should get something to drink,” Armitage says. “Water, or something.”

“Maybe,” Kylo says.

(Armitage hears rustling, the slap of Kylo’s bare feet on the floor. The tap running, and then Kylo swallowing, the noise obscenely close and—)

“Please tell me you’re not drinking directly from the tap,” Armitage says, scowling. He looks both ways, darts across the street instead of waiting for the light to change.

The water stops running, and Kylo chuckles again. “I’m not drinking directly from the tap,” he parrots, in a mocking sing-song.

“Liar,” Armitage says, and there’s no venom in it.

“Listen, though,” Kylo says. “About your thesis.”

Armitage considers hanging up on him.

“Do you have all your photos and stuff on your laptop? From your—your previous work? And your proposal for _Starkiller_?”

Oh, does Armitage have photos on his laptop. Kylo’s going to pass out if he finds them, though. “Photos and video, organized and tagged with the appropriate metadata, yes.” He swallows. “I also have a small projector, so if you’re willing to take down the canvas on the wall next to the windows, I can just project it onto the wall for you. If you’re—if you’re serious about running through this with me.”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, voice bright and enthusiastic. “Yeah, do that. You, uh. You coming home soon? I stuck a bunch of chicken in the slow cooker earlier, and the apartment smells amazing.”

Armitage blinks a little, chest clenching. “I’ve been on my way since before I called you. Should be another—seventeen minutes?”

“I’ll be here,” Kylo says.

As if there’s anywhere else for him to be.

(Armitage picks up the pace anyway, ignores the burning feeling in his chest. He should be doing more cardio. He’s probably out of shape.)

 

“I’m home,” Armitage calls when he comes in the door. He instantly hates himself for doing it—as if Kylo needed him to announce it, they’re the only two that live here, and Kylo knew he was on the way—but when he comes into the main room, Kylo’s smiling at him so sunbeam bright that he doesn’t really regret it.

Kylo is standing by the window at his easel, a paintbrush in his mouth and another in his hand, palette balanced on his forearm. He’s still wearing his workout clothes—tight yoga capris, and a baggy tank top with armholes so large they expose his top-most ribs as well as the vast expanse of his arms. The tank top hangs down low enough that it covers whatever those pants are doing to his dick—but Armitage’s mouth is dry just thinking about it.

Millie is perched on the stool next to Kylo, glaring Armitage down from across the room.

“Boot her off the stool,” Armitage suggests. “You’re just asking to drop your palette paint-side down.”

Kylo’s ears go pink, and he looks away.

Armitage scans the room, and sees the pile of wet paint rags in the corner, sees that Kylo is in his bare feet, and his socks are crumpled in the other corner, paint smeared on them.

Kylo clears his throat. “Anyway,” he says, using his tongue—ugh, his fucking _tongue_ —to flip the brush around to the side of his mouth so he can talk more clearly. “Nah, I don’t need to do that. I’m making out mostly okay here. Plus, we’re just getting to be friends, aren’t we, Millicent?”

Millicent turns her head away—which is about par for the course, Armitage thinks, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up. He toes his shoes off, happens to glance at the fridge as he looks up—and the list is still there, neatly held in place by magnets, with a pen (Kylo’s) and a pencil (Armitage’s) stuck on next to it. Items 11 through 15 are blank, and he fucking wishes that Kylo hadn’t done that—he’d filled in the blanks on the previous list for a reason, and Kylo had added new blanks in, and now Armitage’s stomach is back to twisting uncomfortably at the expanse of a list with blank spaces, a list that isn’t finite. He chews at his lip, pads over to Kylo’s easel. “What are you working on?”

(It’s a new piece—the canvas is easily twice as big as the previous piece Kylo was working on, and it’s precariously close to being too big for the easel.)

“Oh,” Kylo says. “It’s this thing—about galaxies, and loneliness.” He leans back a little on his stool so that Armitage can see the painting clearly.

Armitage is prepared to hate it— _loneliness_ is such a first year topic, galaxies an obvious metaphor, and he’s not expecting much out of Kylo, to be honest—except when he comes to stand beside Kylo and look at the piece, it’s surprisingly beautiful. Kylo’s use of colour has improved significantly, or maybe he just understands the blue-purple-red family better than he understands the green-yellow he was working with before, because the nebula arcing across the sky on this piece is well on its way to stunning, vivid and dimensioned even though the bottom half of the canvas is still blank. He has his sketch taped to the breakfast bar, the nebula scribbled across the sky with colour numbers written in various assorted places, and the bottom of the drawing sketched in with black marker—two small humanoid figures staring up at the sky, not even close enough to each other to touch.

“Your balance is off,” Armitage says automatically. “The painting is weighted—”

“—to the side, I know,” Kylo says. “Feels super fucked up when you look at it, huh?”

“Yeah,” Armitage says. He can—he can respect that. He takes a step back from the painting, squints. “Is your canvas crooked?”

“Quarter of an inch out,” Kylo says proudly. “Not squared either.”

“Must have been awful to stretch,” Armitage says, not because it would have been, but because he expects Kylo to admit that he’s paid someone to do it for him, because _apparently_ he can afford that type of thing, and so why wouldn’t he?

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “There was some profanity.” He rolls his shoulder, and flips his brush over to the other side of his mouth.

(Kylo’s lips are wet with saliva, and Armitage wants to pin him against the window, strip him down and take him to pieces.)

“You should work on that piece at campus,” Armitage says.

Kylo blinks at him.

“It’s going to fall off your easel,” Armitage elaborates—as if he needs to. He doesn’t know why Kylo’s been insisting on working here to begin with, when he doesn’t actually have the space to get far enough back from something this size to even be able to deal with it reasonably. “You’ll have more space on campus.”

“Uh, I guess,” Kylo says. “I mean, I’m not taking any art classes this summer…”

“Did you,” Armitage says crisply, “or did you not declare art as your major?”

“I mean, I did…”

“Work on campus if you’re going to work on a piece this size,” Armitage says. He realizes how he sounds the moment he says it, tries to soften his voice a bit. “I’ll take you to lunch sometime or something, alright?”

Kylo’s face immediately softens. “Yeah, that sounds—that sounds real nice, Armitage.” And then he just _stares_ at Armitage, just _watches_ him, with his eyes all intent, and his mouth all soft, with those fucking lips just—just _there_ , and he looks gorgeous, and Armitage is…

“You weren’t kidding about the food,” Armitage says finally, because he’s uncomfortable with the way Kylo is watching him look at his painting—because he’s uncomfortable with the way that he doesn’t actually have a whole lot of critical things to even _say_ about Kylo’s painting, because he’s uncomfortable in general, because— “It smells really good in here.”

Kylo ducks his head, takes his paintbrush out of his mouth and wipes his hand across his face. “It’s, uh. Nothing complicated, just chicken and sweet potato and I was gonna steam some veggies, make you some pasta if you want the carbs. But I was thinking—did you want to have a bath while I do that, and then we can eat and take a look at your thesis?”

Armitage bristles immediately—both at being told what to do, and at Kylo’s insistence of looking at his thesis, like Kylo can _help_ with anything—and then relents. “Sure. I’ll do that.”

Kylo grins, leans in and pecks Armitage’s cheek. “Sounds good.”

 

Armitage leaves the door cracked open while he pours the bath, entertains a fantasy about Kylo fucking him against the bathroom wall, hoisting Armitage up on his cock and holding him there with those big wide hands on Armitage’s narrow thighs, positioned perfectly so that Armitage can watch Kylo’s ass flexing in the mirror as Kylo drives into him, fucks him so hard his eyes roll back in his head—or maybe, just maybe, _Kylo_ is the one standing still, and he’s using those big arms of his to piston Armitage up and down his shaft, or maybe it’s Kylo pinned up against the wall, and Armitage driving up inside him, right inside that tight ass of his, Kylo’s eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth slurring incoherent profanity—

(Armitage is almost fully hard by the time his bath is ready, but there’s no indication Kylo is coming this direction, so Armitage just slips into the bubbles and lets the arousal drain out of his body, saves those fantasies so that he can pull them out again later.)

He has his feet propped against the end of the tub, and is floating in the water, his head tipped back and his own heartbeat echoing in his ears, when he hears a dull echo through the water. He waits there a moment, counts to twenty, and then grabs onto the sides of the tub, and pulls himself up enough to peer over the edge, squinting to sharpen his vision.

There’s nothing to see anyways, and Armitage sighs. “Come in, Kylo.”

Kylo does—shuffles in barefoot, looking a little stricken. He’s holding Millie, arms wrapped around her torso, with her front legs sticking out awkwardly, and the rest of her body dangling down, tail flicking occasionally.

“What are you doing with my cat?” Armitage asks, even though he knows. He knows just by the look on Kylo’s face that this isn’t about the cat.

“I was, uh,” Kylo says. “The list.”

Armitage bites back a sigh, shifts a little in the water and rests his arms on the side of the tub, leans his chin on his hands. “Yes?”

“You, uh. You don’t think.” Kylo stops, hesitates, squeezes Millie a little closer to his chest. “You don’t think I manipulated you with the list, do you? Into staying? It’s just, I’ve had some…time to…think about it, or whatever, and. Uh. I. I just.”

Armitage sighs, shifts in the bath. “I wish I could say yes.”

Kylo’s mouth falls open. “No, Armitage, I…”

“I _wish_ ,” Armitage repeats, “I could say yes. I can’t say yes, Kylo.”

“I’m not…?”

“Look,” Armitage says. “If any of my exes had hit me with a list like that, I would have seen it as the manipulative tactic that it was, and I would have put out a couple times, and then I would have kicked them right to the curb.”

“I _never_ meant,” Kylo says. “I just…”

“I know,” Armitage says. “Look. After the bar last week, I was just—I was _happy_ , because maybe once I spent some time looking at the list, I would start resenting you over me manipulating you into it.”

Kylo shudders, and his lower lip trembles. He looks like he’s going to cry.

Armitage keeps talking—a little quicker this time, before Kylo gets carried away. “But the thing is—that’s not _you_ , Kylo. That’s not you at all. Like, the entire extent of manipulation for you is that _you knew I liked paperwork_ , and you were right, and that was a fair move on your part. I know you, and once I had some time to think about it…I doubt that you intended anything further than that.”

“Oh god,” Kylo mutters, and he sinks back against the closed door, slides down to the floor. “This was such an awful idea.”

Armitage shrugs. “It wasn’t, really. You’re right. I like paperwork. I like lists. I don’t think it hurt for you to spend some time thinking about the things you wanted to do, the things you wanted to learn. Honestly, I don’t think it’s a bad exercise, and if you want to go through it, I support that.”

_(1. Continuation of Existing Items_

_2\. Mutual Nudity_

_3\. Handjob, Kylo giving_

_4\. Blowjob, Kylo giving_

_5\. Masturbating, Kylo—)_

And then Kylo says something, so softly that Armitage almost doesn’t hear it at first, except—except he does.

He doesn’t want to, but he does.

(He shouldn’t address it, but he knows that he’s going to, before he even opens his mouth.)

“Pardon?”

“For you to stay,” Kylo says. “It’s, uh. It’s all I wanted.”

Armitage swallows past a lump in his throat that has no right being there. “Well, I’m—” _staying_ , he thinks. “—not making any promises. About anything.” _Fuck_ , he wants Kylo to stop looking at him. He doesn’t want Kylo to look away. There’s no winning here, not for him, not for Kylo, not when they’ve started like this, not when they’re continuing the way they’re going, not when— “But it’s going—it’s—I’m amenable to continuing.”

Kylo looks up at him, soft brown eyes glittering with unshed tears, one corner of his mouth curling into a crooked smile, his imperfect teeth just barely showing. “You are?”

“Yeah,” Armitage says. “I am.” His voice wavers, so he says it again, pitches his voice a little lower so that it steadies. “I am amenable to continuing.”

Kylo’s grip on Millie finally loosens, and she uses the opportunity to scramble out of his arms, furry tail waving in his face as she does it.

Kylo makes a face, picks a cat hair off his tongue. “Euch.”

Armitage rolls his eyes. “Anything else, Kylo?”

“Nah, I think that’s all my breakdowns for now,” Kylo says, mouth twisting. “I’ll let you know if I’m going to have any others.”

“Please do,” Armitage says. He takes a wild guess at where this particular discussion had come from. “And tell your sister that your—how to hold hands in public list, or whatever you spun it to her as, is totally fine with me.”

Kylo colours a little, ducks his head. “Uh, yeah. I’ll do that. Sorry about, uh. Well. I told her—you know. You were helping me be—less of a weirdo.”

“Lots of people have social anxiety,” Armitage says.

“Right,” Kylo says. “Yeah, sure.”

Armitage waves his hand vaguely, flicks a couple bubbles off his pinky. “It’s fine. Talking is normal.”

“You didn’t talk about it with Phasma,” Kylo says pointedly, standing up and making an attempt to brush the cat hair off his clothing.

“Of course not,” Armitage says. “I don’t talk to anybody about anything.”

“Well,” Kylo says firmly. “You have me now.”

Armitage is so startled by the statement that Kylo is gone before he’s able to put together a reply—and after he stares at the still-open bathroom door for a moment, he realizes that Kylo probably intended it that way.

 

He drains the bath, wraps himself up in one of Kylo’s plush towels, and sits on the edge of the tub. He has a photo album opened up—the one he’s titled, simply, _Ren_. There are only two photos in it—one of the dying flowers that Kylo had given him, and one, now, of the list. He stares at the list for a few minutes, zooming in to admire Kylo’s calligraphy, the careful way he’s formed all the letters and numbers, the almost-but-not-quite touching of the _6_ against the _9_.

He locks his phone, sets it on the bathroom counter face-down.

It doesn’t stop him from thinking about it, though.

 

“This,” Armitage says, gesturing with his empty fork at his nearly empty plate, “is really fucking good.”

Kylo reaches out and swipes his finger across Armitage’s plate, sticks it in his mouth to suck the sauce off. “Mmm,” he says around his finger. “You’re right, it’s really good.”

“You could put some of the sauce on your—long-grained whatever, you know,” Armitage says, forking up another scoop of pasta and putting it into his mouth.

“I really,” Kylo says, “don’t want to explain to Phasma how I’m incapable of following my macros at home as well as incapable of following them when I’m eating out.”

“I mean, fair,” Armitage says through his mouthful of pasta. “But fuck, this is good. And the chicken is spectacular.”

“It’s literally a plain chicken breast,” Kylo says. “It’s the blandest food possible.”

“It’s really good,” Armitage insists. He takes a swig of his beer, sets the beer back between his legs so that he doesn’t accidentally knock it all over their bed. “Take the compliment gracefully, Kylo—I give them so rarely you should be hoarding the fucking things.”

Kylo raises his eyebrows. “It’s not _that_ bad,” he drawls. “You compliment me on the stuff that matters.”

“Gasping your name while you’re rutting me through the mattress hardly counts,” Armitage says, scraping the last of the sauce into a small pool on the edge of his plate, and then swiping a strip of plain chicken off Kylo’s, running it through the sauce, and popping it in his mouth. “We’ve established that I’m not responsible for anything I—are you blushing again?”

“No,” Kylo lies, reaching forward. “Here, lemme get your plate, and you set up the projector?”

“The—” Armitage starts—and then he remembers. “Right,” he says. “We were going to discuss _Starkiller._ ”

“Don’t sound so sour about it,” Kylo says, sliding off the bed and taking the dirty plates into the kitchen. “I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

“I haven’t been,” Armitage says, but he goes into his closet and pulls his projector out anyway, finds the cables to hook it to the laptop, and hauls everything over to the breakfast bar to set it up. “You’ll get that off the wall?”

“Oh, yeah, shit,” Kylo says. “I said I was gonna do that in advance, yeah.” He sets the dishes noisily in the sink, runs water over them, then shuts it off and goes over to the blank canvas he keeps there, hoists it up off the wall and sets it down against the bookshelves.

Armitage watches him blatantly as he does it. The ridiculous arm holes on his tank top expose enough of Kylo’s skin to get him interested, and not enough of Kylo’s skin to get him off—it’s a perfect tease, absolutely ideal, and Armitage finds his eyes unfocusing while his teeth gnaw at his lip.

“What?” Kylo asks.

Armitage swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “Hm?”

“You’re staring,” Kylo says. He crosses his arms over his chest, cocks his hip. “I thought you were gonna show me your art.”

“Oh, I’ll show you something, alright,” Armitage says, reaching down to adjust himself and then forcing himself to look back at his computer. “Can you close the drapes?”

“Yes, sure.”

Armitage frowns at the trapezoid of light coming out of his projector, and starts fiddling with it until it takes up the maximum amount of space on the wall, and is as square as possible.

“Do you want another beer?” Kylo asks as he crosses back into the kitchen.

“Sure,” Armitage says absently, flicking through his art photos until he finds the supporting documentation for the proposal for _Starkiller_. He takes the beer that Kylo offers him, but frowns at the leather-bound notebook Kylo is carrying. It’s so new that the spine cracks when Kylo opens it up.

(He’d intended, obviously, that Kylo sit on the bed, and Armitage pace around the room, lecturing Kylo on everything—so he isn’t prepared for Kylo to sidle up to the breakfast bar next to him, lean against the wall, uncap his pen, and carefully date the very first page of the notebook.)

“I hardly think this is worth breaking out a new book for,” Armitage says.

“I disagree,” Kylo says coolly. “Don’t hold back on my account, go ahead and get started.”

Armitage rolls his eyes, pulls up his presentation, and clicks over to the title page— _Starkiller_ in the centre, _Armitage Hux_ underneath it. “So I start with a retrospective of my previous work.”

“Right,” Kylo says. “Setting the stage.”

“Yes,” Armitage says, and then he turns slightly so he can watch Kylo’s face as he clicks over to the next slide—and he’s not disappointed, because Kylo’s eyes widen, his jaw drops open slightly, and he exhales in a long, uncontrolled breath. “Especially because,” Armitage says, “the scale of my work is unusual.”

“Well, yeah,” Kylo says, tipping his head slightly to the side. “Is that in the fucking _library_?”

“Arkanis U was very unimpressed,” Armitage says, leaning back against the breakfast bar next to Kylo, and looking at the actual image he’s projected— _in defense of modern history_ , a project that had netted him nearly ten grand out of the betting pool while he was in his third year of engineering, because nobody figured he could actually sneak motorcycles into the library and mount them on top of the shelves. The skeletons riding them and jousting had been an added bonus—Armitage would have preferred full suits of armour, but even after gutting the motorcycles as much as possible, he was closer to the weight limit on the shelves than he really wanted to be, and the armour would have been way too risky.

“I can imagine,” Kylo says. “You just—snuck in after hours and did this?”

“I had my ways,” Armitage replies vaguely. Most of the ten grand had gone to paying people from one of the local biker gangs to do the heavy lifting. “Also, the library definitely fired me after this, and I nearly got kicked out of the program.”

“Why didn’t you?” Kylo asks.

“Local news interviewed me,” Armitage says. “I talked up the engineering program in the interview, and there was a spike in applications.”

“Whoa,” Kylo says. “So you talk about the work here?”

“The work, the strength of the unexpected, interdisciplinary projects, that kind of thing.” He faces Kylo again, flips forward to the next slide. “Basically to prepare them for this.” He expects Kylo’s mouth to fall open again, maybe get a gasp out of him—but instead, Kylo just looks delighted. Armitage rolls his eyes. “Well,” he says, more than a little snarky, “if you’re not going to be impressed by a car suspended off a fucking bridge—”

“No, wait,” Kylo says, grinning, reaching out and grabbing Armitage’s arm. “Don’t skip forward, go back to it, I want to look at it again. I can’t believe—wow.”

Armitage rolls his eyes, moves the presentation back a slide so that Kylo can stare at the photo. It’s one of the shots Armitage had taken from the boat, the gutted car centred in the frame, suspended off the bridge nose-first, dangling down toward the water. “The first iteration of _waiting_ was in chrome,” he says, because he can’t help lecture about it even when he’s salty.

“Why switch it?” Kylo asks. He’s still staring at the pictures.

“Nearly blinded myself with a flashlight coming to work on it late at night,” Armitage says, telling the truth before even considering a lie, even though the truth makes him look infinitely worse than any of the lies he could—and should—have conjured up.

(Kylo chuckles anyway, and Armitage leans a little closer to him, rests his upper arm companionably against Kylo’s.)

“Here,” Armitage says, like he’s offering Kylo something. “Let me show you the next one.” He flips the presentation forward—this next one is one of the better photos, taken from the boat, directly underneath the car he’d suspended from the bridge. The shot goes directly through the windshield, and it’s the only one in which all the work Armitage had done _inside_ the gutted car is actually visible—wire wrapping and small LED lights, matte black paint inside the rest of it to set off the wirework.

“The interior pictures were all taken _in situ_ ,” Armitage says, because if Kylo keeps staring at them, he’s going to say something stupid like _I nearly had to blow the boat captain to get him to take me out here_ and _I only had thirty seconds to take these,_ or _he was praying the entire time because he thought we’d be crushed_.

“It looks so different from this angle,” Kylo says, leaning in against Armitage so closely that Armitage can feel Kylo’s breath on his ear. “They had the bridge blocked off when I was there.”

“Wait,” Armitage says. He looks at Kylo, and then looks back at the projection. “When you were there?”

“When I was there,” Kylo repeats, still staring, awestruck, at the photo.

“You’ve seen it?”

“Of course I’ve seen it,” Kylo says. “You’re one of my—well, I just.” He falters a little, hand fumbling at Armitage’s waist for a moment before his fingers hook into Armitage’s belt loop. “Keep going?”

“You knew who I was,” Armitage says, trying to put everything together. “Your first day, when you showed up to work at Resistance, you knew who I was?”

“I mean, I didn’t think it was actually you,” Kylo says. “I hoped it was, I just—I thought maybe there was another Hux who was suspending cars off bridges? And nobody at Resistance ever talked about your work, so I kinda just convinced myself that I was full of shit, except them you showed me _Starkiller_ , and I was back to being unsure again, and now you’re showing me this, and—and I was there, Hux. Armitage. I fucking—I skipped school, and I stole my dad’s car to drive up and look at it. Crossed the border and everything, I got in so much shit.” He gestures at the projection with his pen. “They had the bridge blocked off when I was there, because I couldn’t get there until the second day, and they wouldn’t rent me a boat because I was underage, so I couldn’t get a better look at it.”

“So they already had the cranes and everything on site,” Armitage says. He can’t quite make this work in his head—that Kylo had known, or at least suspected, that he had seen Armitage’s work before, that Kylo had—had _stolen a car_ just to be able to see one of his pieces in person. That Kylo had— _fuck_.

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “It was a huge production, police tape and everything. Everybody in the crowd was talking about it, they were saying there was a corpse in the car, and that’s why they had everything blocked off like that, but I think it was probably just because they were concerned about crowd safety, because you hung a fucking _car_ off a _bridge,_ Armitage.”

Armitage grins, settles comfortably against Kylo’s side. “I mean, there was,” he says. “A corpse.”

Kylo stares at him.

“The original Millicent,” Armitage says. “Her ashes were part of the interior—you see the wire there, yeah? It’s a replica of a circulatory system, inside the car. Millicent’s ashes are in the urn that serves as the heart of the piece. It’s suspended right in the middle of the gutted car, that’s where all the twisted wires go—here, hold on.” He shrinks the presentation, and reluctantly turns away from Kylo to start digging through his reference images. “I was heavily advised _not_ to discuss this portion of the piece with anyone else, so these pictures aren’t part of the official imagery.”

“But they’re the best ones,” Kylo says, eyes wide as he looks at the new images Armitage is projecting onto the wall. “Holy fuck, that’s amazing, look at the fucking detail.”

“It’s not anatomically accurate,” Armitage says, but he can feel his cheeks warming anyway.

“Holy fuck,” Kylo repeats. “Armitage.” His mouth is open, lips slack. “I just can’t believe it’s actually you, I can’t believe—”

Armitage kisses him.

Kylo kisses him back immediately, mouth open and hands immediately settling around Armitage’s waist. His mouth is warm and welcoming, and Armitage moans against him without meaning to.

“C’mere,” Kylo says, tightening his grip on Armitage’s waist and then hoisting him up onto the breakfast bar. “No, don’t move, here, I’m moving your laptop, just— _fuck yeah_ , baby, _fuck_.”

Armitage wraps his legs around Kylo’s waist, sinks his hands into Kylo’s hair. He can’t seem to get his breath properly, but it doesn’t really matter because every time he pulls away, Kylo is _right there_ , Kylo is holding his waist, Kylo is kissing his mouth, Kylo is tipping his face up to Armitage, exposing his entire neck.

“I can’t believe you fucking _stole a car_ to come see that piece,” Armitage says between kisses. “You _stole a car_.”

“I told you,” Kylo says. “I have a record.”

“You did _not_ tell me,” Armitage responds, before moving his mouth over to Kylo’s ear, flicking his tongue.

“Can’t even—get a license anymore—” Kylo gasps. “Parents were so—disappointed—oh, _fuck_ , Armitage.”

“God fucking _damn_ you feel good,” Armitage says. He tightens his grip with his legs, pulls Kylo even tighter against him. “No, don’t—don’t try to make me come, get your hands back on my waist.”

“You’re so _narrow_ ,” Kylo says. “Fuck, I can’t stop thinking about you—I can’t believe that was your fucking piece—I can’t believe that was you—”

“Jesus,” Armitage swears. “Bed, bed—take me to the bed, Kylo, rub off on me, just—could you just—”

Kylo wraps his arms around Armitage’s chest, hands latching onto Armitage’s shoulders. “Here, I’m gonna—fuck, sorry,” he mutters, stumbling a little, and more throwing Armitage onto the bed than settling him down gently, but it’s fine, it’s totally fine because Kylo immediately covers Armitage’s body with his own, and Armitage feels like he’s drowning in absolutely the best way, surrounded by Kylo, by Kylo’s broad chest and his big arms, and that fucking cock of his, hard and insistent against Armitage’s thigh.

“I can’t believe you came to see it,” Armitage says, breathing heavily.

“I can’t believe it was you,” Kylo says. He rolls his hips, ruts his cock up against Armitage’s. “I can feel your dick, this is amazing—I can’t believe—I went to see your piece when I was seventeen, and now I’m—fuck, I’ve been thinking about this for five years, and I’m—I’m rubbing my dick against yours, Armitage, I—”

“Go ahead,” Armitage whispers hoarsely, and he puts his hand back into Kylo’s hair and tugs. “Go ahead, big boy, go—”

(Kylo thrusts against him, and time is infinite, meaningless. He doesn’t care about his thesis or his father or anything. He only cares about Kylo, grinding up against him and panting in his ear, tugging Armitage up against his body, his big warm hands all over Armitage’s skin, up under his shirt and caressing his back.)

Kylo bites down, hard, on Armitage’s shoulder, and Armitage arches up into it, gasping and tugging at Kylo’s hair, his entire body going taut all at once as Kylo twitches and orgasms, cursing and shaking and running his hands all over Armitage’s body before collapsing on top of him, breathing heavily.

(Armitage’s shoulder aches, and he can feel sweat dripping from Kylo’s forehead onto his own, and his glasses have definitely been knocked crooked by this whole disaster, and he doesn’t even care.)

“Am I gonna die from this?” Kylo asks vaguely, finally rolling over onto his back next to Armitage.

Armitage takes a deep breath, exhales heavily before rolling onto his side and looking at Kylo. “From coming that hard?”

“Yeah,” Kylo says. His eyes are still unfocused and distant. “Like, holy fuck. I keep telling myself it’s gonna start feeling normal—like, any day now, I’ll just get used to it—and every time, I’m just a fucking _mess_ , Armitage.”

Armitage grins, self-satisfied. “Well, go un-mess yourself in the shower, Kylo. You have class in the morning anyway—if you go quick, you can come cuddle with me.”

“I’ll go so fast,” Kylo promises, getting up out of bed and heading immediately for the bathroom, taking off his shirt on the way.

(It isn’t until the shower is already running that Armitage rolls over onto his back, sneaks his hand into his pants. He jerks himself off while listening to Kylo shower, comes all over his hand like he’s a teenager again, grimaces as he wipes it off on his thigh. He knows Kylo would have done this for him—he knows Kylo would have done his best—he fucking knows he would have come no matter how inexperienced Kylo is—and he knows, somehow, in his heart, that he would be giving something away if he just let Kylo have this.)

(He _wants_ to let Kylo have this.)

 

When Armitage gets out of the shower—it had taken him twenty minutes to scrub the dried come out of his pubic hair, and he’d lost another ten to looking in the mirror at the perfect bite mark Kylo has left on him, the perfect beautiful bite mark that he’s going to mourn once it heals—Kylo is bent over the breakfast bar, making notes in his notebook. He’s opened the drapes again, but it doesn’t matter because it’s pitch black out. “You’re not still on about my stuff, are you?” Armitage asks, not entirely certain what he wants the answer to be.

( _Pay attention to_ me _, Kylo, pay attention to_ me…)

“Kind of,” Kylo says vaguely. “I just—we never actually got to the _Starkiller_ part, you know?”

Armitage snorts, toes off his moccasins and pushes them under the bed before taking off his glasses and putting them on the storage bin he’s using as a bedside table. “There’s not anything to get to. You’ve already seen it—it’s a ball that shoots light out of itself, it’s very underwhelming.”

“But there’s the rest of the exhibit,” Kylo says.

“I’ll tell you about it when it’s done,” Armitage says, suddenly starting to feel sick instead of sated. He rubs at his shoulder, at the bite mark that Kylo left, pressing on it a little to remind himself that it’s there, and then pulls back the covers, gets into bed. “Only—there aren’t many places to go from there, you know? I suspended a car from a bridge, I don’t know how I’m supposed to top that.”

Kylo blinks, looks down at his notes. Armitage squints. He can’t make out the details, but he thinks Kylo is much further along in the notebook than he should be, considering that he had just started it tonight.

“Jesus, there was really no need to chew through that much paper for this.”

“I was making notes,” Kylo says defensively. “And I was learning. This is really helpful for me, okay?”

Armitage rolls his eyes, checks his phone. “It’s past midnight.” He hangs his hand over the side of the bed, snaps his fingers, and Millie comes running from the closet. “Good girl,” he says, nuzzling into her fur as he picks her up and deposits her on the bed beside him. “Good girl, came running nice and prompt for me.”

“Do you, uh—want me to come to bed?” Kylo asks.

“Not necessary,” Armitage says. “I have my cat, and I’m just nicely comfortable here.” He adjusts the pillows behind him, snuggles down into the blankets while he pets Millie.

“Well, I’m coming anyway,” Kylo says decisively.

“Suit yourself,” Armitage says, eyes already starting to drift shut.

“I, uh,” Kylo says. “I will.”

It’s the odd tone of his voice that makes Armitage open his eyes—and he regrets, immediately, that he doesn’t have his glasses on, because Kylo is stripping off his shirt, and then sticking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats, pushing everything down until he’s standing there completely naked.

“You’re not serious,” Armitage breathes.

“Item two, mutual nudity,” Kylo says. “I’m practising my half of it.” And then he stands there, arms crossed over his chest, that massive blur of a flaccid dick hanging heavily between his legs.

“Alright,” Armitage says. “Fine, then, if this is how it’s going to be.” He pushes back his own covers, pulls his shirt over his head. “Mind where you’re lying at night,” he says. “I don’t want you crushing my balls with your knee in your sleep.”

“I’ll be careful,” Kylo promises hastily. “I swear, I will be. I won’t move or anything.”

Armitage wiggles out of his pyjama pants and his underwear, drops them onto the floor beside the bed for Millie to sleep on. “Well, there you go,” he says. “Item two, mutual nudity.”

“Can I see?” Kylo asks.

Armitage closes his eyes, burrows back under the blankets. “Go to sleep, Kylo.”

Kylo sighs. “Okay.”

“You can see in the morning,” Armitage says. “When we’re not so exhausted.” He cracks his eyes open—and Kylo is close enough now that he can see the delight crossing Kylo’s face. He waits until Kylo gets in bed, and then reaches over and pats his hand comfortingly. “I’ll still be here in the morning.” _We have plenty of time._

(It’s a lie, it’s a fucking _lie_ —)

“Thank you, Armitage,” Kylo says.

Armitage is just on the edge of sleep when he feels Kylo’s hand gently intertwine with his.

 

Kylo’s hand is no longer intertwined with his when Armitage wakes up a few hours later—based on the noises coming from Kylo’s side of the bed, the slightly stifled inhalations and the rustling of bedcovers, Kylo’s hand is on his cock.

“Manners, manners,” Armitage says, opening his eyes.

Next to him, Kylo freezes. “Fuck,” he says.

“Fuck is right,” Armitage says, reaching over the side of the bed for his glasses. It’s a full moon tonight and between that and the streetlights, he’s actually got half a chance of—

“I’m so sorry,” Kylo says hurriedly. “I’ll go.”

Armitage grabs blindly with his right hand, grabs Kylo’s wrist. “Don’t even think about it, I’m just—there.” He finally gets his hand on his glasses, lets go of Kylo’s wrist in order to get them situated on his face.

Everything snaps into focus—the moonlight streaming in from the top of the window, the streetlights from down below. The gnarled pile of covers where Kylo’s thrown them to the side, and his fist wrapped around his hard cock. There’s a light sheen to his chest, and his hair is falling into his face. It’s hard to tell in the light, but it looks like Kylo’s face is at least a little flushed.

“What—what are you doing?” Kylo asks.

“I’m watching,” Armitage says, adjusting his pillows and sitting up in bed. “You were wanking loudly enough you woke me up, and goodness knows where Millicent has got to.”

“She left before I started,” Kylo says immediately. “I didn’t—I wouldn’t—”

“Oh, so it’s fine for your fake fiance to be woken up by you grabbing at your own cock, but not fine if the cat were woken by the same thing?”

Kylo scowls. “Look, I—never mind, Armitage. It’s—it’s fucking three am, I have early class and I can’t sleep…I figured this would help.”

“So?”

“So I’m sorry I—”

“No,” Armitage interrupts. “So—why haven’t you continued? It’s on the list, is it not? _Item five, masturbating, Kylo for Armitage_. Well, I’m here, I’m awake, and I’m very warm and comfortable. I don’t need to be on campus until later, and I would very much like to be masturbated at right now.”

Kylo hesitates. He’s pulled the covers half over himself, so Armitage can’t see anything.

“Do you need help?” Armitage asks archly. “Advice? I mean, I’m pretty sure you’ll want to move your hand sooner rather than later, so you don’t go soft.”

“I’m fine,” Kylo says, sounding a little strangled.

“Go ahead, then,” Armitage says. “You can turn toward me, if you like. If you want me to look.”

“Can I?”

“I didn’t bring my glasses out for nothing,” Armitage says. “Turn this way, Kylo.”

Kylo swallows, pushes the covers out of the way, and turns until he’s facing Armitage. His cock is still mostly hard as he reaches down between his legs, adjusts his balls. His pubic hair is neatly trimmed, thickest right above his dick, but stretching up into a narrow line that goes all the way up to his belly button.

“The gym’s been kind to you,” Armitage says, tracing over the faint outline of Kylo’s abs with his eyes. “Looks nice.”

Kylo’s only answer is an uneven pant, and a heavy swallow.

“I like your chest,” Armitage continues. “I can really see how you’re bulking out. If you’re looking this good after—what, six weeks?—imagine how you’re going to look in six months. A year.” _Six years_ , he thinks, and then he bites it back because he doesn’t need to be thinking that right now.

“How do you—usually,” Kylo asks, voice wavering. He’s touching his balls with his right hand, has his left wrapped around his cock. “When you—”

“Do you always use your left hand?” Armitage asks.

“I switch,” Kylo says, tightening his grip on his dick and slowly stroking it. It’s hard enough now that the foreskin has pulled back from the head, and Armitage can see a bead of precome glistening there for a moment before Kylo brings his fist up around the head of his dick again. “I always paint with the right, so—”

“Sometimes after a long day of painting, it hurts to jerk off?”

“Other way around,” Kylo says, grinning that lopsided grin of his. “And I didn’t want to—fuck up my degree or anything, so I taught myself … with the other hand.”

Armitage wants to roll his eyes. He wants to roll his eyes because that’s one of the most ridiculous things he’s ever heard, but instead he just shifts a little on the bed, burrows further into his pillow nest, pulling the sheets around himself.

“Do you want to—participate?” Kylo asks. He’s moving his hand slow, up and down his dick, pulling the foreskin over the head, and then back down again. Tighter on the upstroke, looser on the down from what Armitage can see, and he mentally files that away to use it for later.

“No,” Armitage says. “This is for me—I’m the one who’s inconvenienced here. I’m the one who’s been woken up. This is for me.”

“Can I—can I see you?” Kylo asks.

“Mmm,” Armitage says, pretending to think about it.

Kylo whines, a small soft noise coming from the back of his throat.

Armitage shrugs the covers back a little, pulling them around his shoulders and slightly over his head so that he gets to keep as much warmth as he can, but the entire front of his body is exposed to Kylo’s gaze—and oh, does Kylo _look_ , his soft brown eyes tracking the entire way over Armitage’s body, from his face down to his feet and back up again.

Kylo’s hand speeds up on his dick, and his breathing picks up. He’s not staring at a particular part of Armitage—his eyes are constantly moving, and his mouth is partly open, tongue flashing out to lick his lips.

“I like the way your dick looks,” Kylo says, voice low and husky.

“Thank you,” Armitage says, smiling in spite of himself, even though it’s one of the clumsiest compliments he’s ever received, one of the worst pickup lines. There’s something about being looked at, being _watched_ that’s always done it for him, and the part where it’s Kylo doing the watching—that somehow makes it better. He preens a little under Kylo’s eyes, watches the way Kylo’s bicep tightens as he strokes himself. “How long does it usually take you? When you’re touching yourself to try to get to sleep?”

“Not long,” Kylo says, quickening the pace on his dick. “I usually try to—hurry it up. I’m a pretty—bad sleeper, to be honest.”

Something occurs to Armitage. “How long has this been going on?” His voice is sharper than he intended, and Kylo flinches back a bit—so Armitage reaches out, puts his hand on Kylo’s neck so that he can stroke his skin with his thumb, feel Kylo’s pulse pounding under his fingertips. “ _Kylo,_ ” he says gently. “How long?”

“A—bit,” Kylo says. “A while, I usually—I usually get out of bed, I’ve been—since you moved in—this is the first—” He squeezes his eyes shut, nose scrunching up. “You’re naked,” he whines. “You’re never—you’re never naked, but you’re just—and I couldn’t sleep knowing—you were right next to me, stark naked, and I couldn’t stop thinking about your body, and it was only going to take—only going to take a minute—Armitage, I’m—Armitage, I’m so close—”

“Look at me,” Armitage commands, and when Kylo opens his eyes, Armitage throws the covers back, nipples perking up as they’re fully exposed to the chillier air of the room. He stretches, then, reaches out with his foot to caress Kylo’s calf. His cock is starting to harden as well. “Do you like what you see?” he asks Kylo.

“Holy fuck, yes,” Kylo says, hand moving faster on his dick. “You’re so—ugh, you’re perfect, I love—your nipples and your stomach, your hips, your cock, your ass, let me—I want to—fuck, Armitage, I’m going to come, can I—will you let me—”

“Go ahead,” Armitage purrs.

Kylo groans, curling in on himself as he comes over his fist and onto his stomach. “Holy fuck, holy shit, Armitage, Armitage.”

Armitage reaches out and strokes Kylo’s hair, murmuring soothing noises at him as he comes down.

After his breathing has evened out again, Kylo chuckles.

“What?” Armitage asks.

“That’s the same thing you do to your cat,” Kylo says. “The—petting thing, with the soothing. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“And so what if it is,” Armitage says. “What does it matter?”

Kylo shrugs, and doesn’t move away. “It doesn’t,” he says. “Just noticed, that’s all.”

Armitage keeps petting his hair until Kylo’s breathing slows, finally, and evens out into the regular breath of sleep. There’s still a sheen of come on Kylo’s belly, and Armitage scowls at him, ends up reaching over his side of the bed and groping around until he finds his t-shirt, uses the shirt—his own shirt!—to mop off the worst of the mess, and prevent any of it from touching him. Then Armitage puts his glasses back on his storage bin, and cuddles up close to Kylo, lays his head on Kylo’s bicep.

 

(Armitage wakes up again first thing in the morning to the sound of Kylo swearing quietly. _It’s on your shirt and stuck to my stomach, I’ll have to shower_ , Kylo whines, but he kisses Armitage when Armitage tilts his face up for it, purses his lips—and that’s fine. That’s totally fine.)

 

(Armitage falls back asleep, and he dreams of pressing his naked body up against Kylo’s. Dreams that it’s something he can have—not just for now, not just for a couple of months, but something that he can have for good.)

(He knows he can’t. But he dreams.)

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Armitage, sweetie. Those feelings!
> 
> Come on over to [my blog](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/07/01/dtd-chapter-sixteen-breakdown/) and let's talk about the contents of the list, and the various revisions the list has gone through!
> 
> The posting schedule could be slightly irregular for the remainder of the series--there's only six chapters remaining, and I would like to be done by August 8th, but also, my mental health, lolsob. I'll try to keep everyone updated on twitter and tumblr as much as I can. I appreciate everyone's support on this project--it's the longest thing I've ever written, and it's been really encouraging to know that people are enjoying it. I appreciate that a lot. <3


	17. tilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo keeps a secret.
> 
> Armitage has a breakthrough on his thesis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My everlasting gratitude to deadsy, who betas infinite drafts of my work and fixes many of my problems, and to valda, who copyedits the ten thousand errors I like to slip in there just to keep her sharp. (I kid, they're all accidental, GOOD LORD, you'd think I would pay attention to the red squigglies and yet here we are.)
> 
> (I'm being facetious, it's not /all/ red squigglies.)

Kylo is panting when Phasma gestures at him to stop. He stands still a moment, making sure his legs are actually going to hold him, before grabbing the cleaner and wiping down the mat.

When he finally stands up again, Phasma is leaning against the wall watching him. Kylo feels like he’s going to fall over—his back is soaked through with sweat, his muscles feel like jello, and his shoulder is aching where she caught him with a punch that he didn’t quite duck. But Phasma doesn’t look flustered at all—there’s a slight pink flush to her face, but otherwise she looks exactly the same as she did before they started.

“That was tolerable,” she says.

Kylo grins, hides it by ducking his head. “You’re not running off to teach right away?”

“No,” she says. “No enrolment in my male class this session, but I keep the slot open in case anyone needs it.”

Kylo starts undoing the wraps on his hands. He’d be self-conscious about unwrapping them—they’re soaked through with sweat, and he has to wipe his hands on his pants once he’s got the wraps unwound—but he looks up from under his hair, and Phasma is unwrapping her own, sweat-drenched just like his. She drapes her wraps over her shoulder, so Kylo does the same, drapes them over his shoulders and shakes his hand out, looking back up at her and—

Her face has gone cold. “My office, Ren,” she says flatly. “Now.”

He doesn’t have a chance to say anything, because she’s already halfway there.

Kylo runs his hand through his hair and hurries after her.

 

“Shut the door,” she says as soon as she gets into her office. She jabs a finger at him, pointing at his hand. “Explain.”

Kylo looks down, realizes his middle knuckle is still scabbed over. “I’d really rather—”

“No,” Phasma says sharply. “Explain. Who did you hit?”

Kylo swallows, hard. “I’d rather not say.”

Phasma puts her hand on her desk phone. “I’ll cancel your membership.”

Kylo squares his shoulders, and keeps his mouth shut.

(He wants, desperately, to put his scabbed-up hand behind his back, but she’s seen it now, seen it for the first time since he hit Brendol, and even though he can’t save himself now—at least he can keep Armitage’s secret.)

Phasma picks up the phone, dials.

Kylo’s eyes sting.

“Wait outside,” Phasma says. “Right where I can see you.”

Kylo nods, and steps outside, stands right in front of the window of her office, and waits.

(The dark-haired lady working reception is watching him. He rolls his shoulders in and tries to make himself look small. His water bottle is still over on the mats. He doesn’t dare go back to get it.)

 

He’s out there for twenty-three minutes, and it feels like four hours.

When Phasma’s office door opens again, her face is softer.

“Come back in, Kylo,” she says.

Kylo exhales heavily, follows her back inside.

(He doesn’t give a shit what she says to him, he’s just happy to hear his first name again.)

She leans back against her desk, watches him. After a few excruciatingly long minutes during which she does not break eye contact, she says, “You could have just told me it was Brendol.”

Kylo looks away. “Wasn’t my story,” he mutters.

“I was going to blacklist you from the gym,” Phasma says.

Kylo stares at his feet, tells her the truth. “Armitage didn’t say I could talk about it. So I didn’t talk about it. I would have found another gym.”

“Other gyms aren’t as good,” she says, her lips curving slightly into a smile. She nods at his hand. “You must not have broken anything except Brendol’s nose.”

“Ah, no,” Kylo says. “I—wasn’t trying to hide it from you either, I just—usually don’t unwrap until later.”

“Hide it from me?” Phasma asks. “I would have bought you a beer if you’d owned up to it.”

Kylo looks up at her, startled.

“I’ve been wanting to punch that abusive prick since the moment I met Armitage.”

Kylo opens his mouth to ask the question—but then realizes that he already has the answer.

_I keep the slot open in case anyone needs it._

_Not physical training, not like you. It was just—screwing around._

“Sorry,” he says instead. “I should have asked Armitage if it was okay to tell you about it.”

“He would have said no,” Phasma says, standing up, and opening her door. “He’s been avoiding me lately.”

Kylo doesn’t say anything, just waits.

Phasma gestures to her door. “Get out, Ren,” she says, but she says it fondly. “It’s not the principal’s office. Keep up the good work, and I’ll book you in for another sparring session next week.”

“Thanks,” Kylo says, nearly tripping on his own feet in his haste to get the hell out.

“Go home and do yoga,” Phasma calls after him.

Kylo waves at her in acknowledgement and gets the fuck out of the gym.

 

He’s too anxious to wait for the bus. Talking about Brendol, even vaguely, makes him want to scream. (Thinking about Armitage taking self-defense classes from Phasma makes him want to cave Brendol’s face in.) Kylo’s shoulder aches, his hand throbs. He can feel the anger building back up behind his teeth. He runs the rest of the way home, takes the stairs up to the apartment two at a time. His hands are shaking so badly that he can’t get the key into the lock on the first try.

The apartment is dead quiet when he finally gets the door open. His heart is pounding in his throat and he can feel sweat dripping down his back, but their apartment is calm, their apartment is quiet, and he’s going to be okay here. Millie is sleeping in a sunbeam over by Kylo’s art supplies. She’s shoved his easel into a different spot again, but it doesn’t look like she got into anything else. He can just…do yoga over by the bed, get calmed the hell down, and maybe he’ll fill one of her toys with catnip when she wakes up, let her tear around like a menace.

(He momentarily contemplates just lying down in the sunbeam beside her, but he told Phasma he would do yoga, so he’s going to get changed and take a piss, do his damn yoga like he’s supposed to, and maybe he can just drop down into that meditative space and stay there until he can stop thinking about the bone-crunch sound of Brendol’s nose breaking—)

“Shit,” Kylo swears the minute he gets into the bathroom. “You startled me.”

Armitage doesn’t bother looking over at him, just gestures to the laptop sitting on a board that’s propped over the bath. “I’m working,” he says irritably.

“You’re in the tub,” Kylo says. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t—”

Armitage rolls his eyes, takes a quick sweep up and down Kylo’s body. “If you need to piss, go ahead.”

Kylo hesitates.

(Armitage’s hair is damp, combed back and severe but starting to fall down by his face as it dries. His skin is pink from the heat of the tub. He looks ethereal and gorgeous and also slightly like a wet, pissed-off cat.)

Armitage raises his eyebrow.

Kylo moves his hand behind his back, suddenly self-conscious of the damage even though he’s been going around unbandaged for days now. “What are you, uh. I mean, I just. The gym was. Phasma said—well.”

Armitage huffs suddenly, reaches for his phone. “She read you the riot act, didn’t she.” He jabs at the screen of his phone, starts stabbing out a message. “It’s not enough that she calls me in a snit over something that you clearly didn’t do, but she—”

“No,” Kylo says. “You don’t need to text her, it’s—it’s okay. She teaches—the self-defense courses—I mean, she can’t have me in her gym if I—if I’m the type of person who—” His voice falters, breaks. _If she thinks I hit you_ , he thinks, but he can’t say it because the words are stuck in his throat.

“Hey,” Armitage says softly. “Come here, you great lump.” He sets his phone down, extends his hand. “Come here.”

Kylo kneels on the bathmat, leans into the tub so that his head is on Armitage’s shoulder.

Armitage wraps his arm awkwardly around Kylo’s shoulders, pats his back. “There, there,” he says, like he’s speaking a foreign language. “There, there. You’re not that type of person, and we both know it. You saved me, and that’s exactly what I told her when she phoned. I just didn’t think you were physically _there_ at the time, or I’d have torn into her for even asking.”

Kylo shakes his head, rubs his nose against Armitage’s shoulder. “You didn’t need to do that,” he says miserably. “She needed to make sure.”

“Hey,” Armitage says intensely. He flicks Kylo under the chin with his fingers, forces Kylo’s eyes upwards. “We both know that you didn’t hit me, and anyways, that wasn’t about you. It was about me. She doesn’t trust my judgement.” He leans forward, presses a firm kiss against Kylo’s lips. “Now look, sweetheart. What did you come in here for? What are you doing right now? She obviously worked the hell out of you at the gym, I could smell you from the door, and you’re all damp across your shoulders.”

Kylo grimaces. “I, uh. Came in here to piss, and then I was just gonna do yoga for a while, get calmed down.”

“Okay,” Armitage says. He raises his eyebrows, and then gestures at the toilet. “So go ahead. Piss.”

“But you’re in here,” Kylo says, blinking.

“I’m working,” Armitage says, turning back to his computer. “I won’t look.”

“Ah, okay,” Kylo says. He gets to his feet, fumbles with the drawstring of his shorts, trying to get the knot undone.

“Unless you want me to,” Armitage adds.

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut, hand resting over his dick, which he really needs to not get hard right now. “I really need to do yoga,” he says.

“I’ll suck it if you want,” Armitage says. Kylo can hear the water moving around in the tub.

(He absolutely refuses to turn around and see what Armitage is doing.)

“ _Armitage_ ,” Kylo hisses. “It’s not that I don’t—I just—later?”

Armitage chuckles, and Kylo risks a glance over at him. The chuckle looks genuine—he can see amusement flashing across Armitage’s face, and more of his hair has fallen forward into his eyes, which probably means he was fussing with it while Kylo was looking away. “Later, later,” Armitage says. He looks up at Kylo. “Well?” he asks. “Don’t let me keep you.”

It’s a near thing—Kylo’s dick is threatening to get hard and he has to force himself to breathe properly, but he closes his eyes, tips his head to the ceiling, and exhales, slowly. Finally manages to relax enough to look down at the toilet and piss, making sure that he’s aiming properly, extremely conscious of Armitage’s eyes on his—

“It’s just such a nice dick,” Armitage says from the tub. “Utterly gorgeous. Did you know that I don’t think I’ve ever seen it soft before? It tends to stay kind of—semi, after you’ve come.”

Kylo can feel his cheeks burning as he flushes and tucks himself away, washes his hands. “Thanks,” he says awkwardly. “Uh, I guess.” He runs his hand back through his hair, and then tugs a loose strand out from under his engagement ring. “What are, uh. What are you doing?”

Armitage looks at him archly. “I’m working on my thesis, since apparently I’m not sucking dick at the moment.”

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut. “I still have to do yoga.”

“Well, go do your yoga then,” Armitage says, voice softened. “I’ll be out in a bit.”

“Okay,” Kylo says. “No rush,” he adds, after a moment.

“I wouldn’t rush for you,” Armitage says. “I’m all done with that shit—I do things at my own pace now.”

“That’s good,” Kylo says. “You should. Do things at your own pace.”

(He strips down in the closet, swaps his gross sweaty clothes out for a loose tank and tight yoga capris. Tosses his dirty clothes into the bin, darts across the bathroom to steal a kiss from Armitage, and then escapes back to the bedroom before Armitage has a chance to complain.)

 

Kylo is bent over backwards trying to relax in king pigeon when he finally hears Armitage emerge from the bathroom.

“Oh,” Armitage says. “Well, then.”

“I know it’s weird,” Kylo mumbles, and the sound is muffled by his arms, and the part where it’s actually kind of hard to talk when he’s bent around like this. He knows his posture isn’t perfect, he knows, he knows, but he thinks he might be able to get there if he keeps working on it. (It’s a bit of a surprise what his body is able to do now that he’s started paying attention to what it needs, giving it some of what it wants—)

“That’s really something,” Armitage says, voice getting distant as he moves back into the closet. “I need you to—hold on where you are, yeah? Can I take some pictures?”

“Uh, yeah?” Kylo says, confused. “Pictures of me?”

“Of course pictures of you,” Armitage says. He’s closer now, and Kylo can hear the click of a camera, and then again. “What else would I be taking pictures of, Kylo?”

“Oh god,” Kylo groans, trying to shift his arms. “Don’t send those to Phasma.”

Armitage chuckles. “Silly boy, why would I share these? They’re for my own personal use.”

Kylo opens his eyes, and all he can see is Armitage’s lower legs, pacing in and out of Kylo’s line of sight.

“Think this might be exactly what I need,” Armitage mutters.

“I’ll give you what you need,” Kylo jokes. The innuendo doesn’t dawn on him until Armitage responds, voice low.

“Will you, though?” Armitage asks.

 

Kylo does. Pins Armitage against the wall, ruts up against him, lifts Armitage up until his legs are wrapped around Kylo’s waist and Kylo is grinding right against Armitage’s hardening dick.

“Fuck,” Armitage breathes. “Your dick in those yoga pants, baby, I need it.”

“You can have it,” Kylo growls into Armitage’s ear. “You can have it, baby, you can—holy fuck. Goddamn, you feel so good against me, I love how I can feel you getting hard for me. Fuck. Baby. Armitage. _Fuck_.”

“Get yourself off,” Armitage hisses. “Get yourself off, bring that cock out, I want to see it.”

“Little busy right now,” Kylo gasps, thrusting Armitage against the wall again, and squeezing Armitage’s tiny ass. “Don’t want to—drop you.”

“I’ve got you,” Armitage says, latching one arm tight around Kylo’s neck, tightening his legs around Kylo’s waist, and then plunging his other hand down the front of Kylo’s pants, and grabbing his cock.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Kylo curses. “Fuck, your goddamn hand.”

“Your goddamn cock,” Armitage echoes, nipping at Kylo’s ear. “Fuck, you’re big—I can hardly get my hand wrapped around you.”

“Liar,” Kylo says, trying to catch his breath and also hoist Armitage up higher against the wall at the same time.

Armitage’s hand on his dick is as distracting as hell, the way that Armitage is stroking him, hard and fast and firm.

“I’m so close,” Kylo says. “I won’t last if you’re so—I’m just—Armitage, holy fuck.”

Armitage flicks his tongue on Kylo’s ear, breathes heavily against Kylo’s neck. “Go on, then,” he says. “Give everything to me, show me what you can do, show me—”

“Holy fuck,” Kylo says, and he comes all over Armitage’s hand, staggering a little as the aftershocks of the orgasm hit him. He feels stupid afterwards, slow and fucked out, every muscle in his body threatening to collapse at once. It’s all he can do to lower Armitage gently to the floor, and the moment Armitage’s feet touch, Kylo leans heavily against him, licking vaguely at his neck.

(There’s a bruise there, greenish and fading, a mark that Kylo left on him that Armitage apparently doesn’t care enough to cover.)

“Good,” Armitage breathes. “Yes, good. Kylo. Baby.” His hand is gentle around Kylo’s softening cock. He pulls his damp fingers out of Kylo’s pants, considers them, and then sighs heavily, ducks under Kylo’s arm, and heads for the bathroom.

“You—don’t want me to get you off?” Kylo asks. He feels oddly bereft, disoriented.

“Not right now,” Armitage calls from the bathroom. “I have to get to campus.”

“It’s eight pm,” Kylo says. “It’s the weekend. Come to BT’s with me?”

“Oh god,” Armitage says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t let him hear you call it that, he’ll have your knackers.” He’s carrying a heavy sweater from the closet, and stops by the bed to put it on, tugging it down over his torso. “Studio’s open all hours, and I just thought of something—I’ve gotta get it while it’s still in my head.” He grabs his camera from off the bed, and then picks up his messenger bag, slips on his shoes.

“Wish I had a car I could lend you,” Kylo says. “It’s such a long walk.”

“It’s forty-five minutes,” Armitage says. “Plus, I can’t drive either.”

“You can’t?” Kylo asks.

“Don’t wait up,” Armitage says, leaning in and brushing his lips against Kylo’s cheek. “I might be a bit.”

“I won’t,” Kylo says.

(He does, but he accidentally falls asleep just after midnight, Millie curled up on his chest.)

 

_Kylo: Hey Armitage, do you work early today?_

_Kylo: Wait, no, it’s Sunday, Resistance doesn’t open till later._

_Armitage: Thesis._

_Kylo: Wait, though, it’s five am? How are you already gone?_

_Armitage: Thesis._

_Kylo: Okay, seriously, though._

_Kylo: I would have made you breakfast._

_Kylo: We have, uh. Eggs?_

_Armitage: Thesis._

_Kylo: Okay, good luck!_

_Armitage: I appreciate you as a person._

_Armitage: but_

_Armitage: thesis_

_Armitage: gonna be sparse for the next week or so_

Armitage isn’t fucking kidding. It’s to the point where Kylo isn’t entirely certain that Armitage is still living with him, because he never sees him anymore. Kylo sleeps on his side of the bed, but every time he wakes up, the other side of the bed is cold. The food in the fridge remains untouched, the laundry piles don’t change unless Kylo changes them (and he does, keeps up with all the laundry just in case Armitage comes home and needs something), the sheets on Armitage’s side don’t wrinkle or get untucked. Nothing in the apartment shifts—and it’s like he’s entirely alone.

Kylo lasts for almost a week before he decides he’s definitely going to text. It’s Friday, and he’s already casually stopped in at Armitage’s studio (empty), casually stopped in at Resistance and ended up having a coffee and catch-up chat with Poe for an hour or two (Armitage isn’t working, and it doesn’t sound like Poe has seen him lately), and just as casually stopped in at Bala-Tik’s—which was full of scary-looking dudes watching a game, and someone that looked similar enough from behind to Kylo’s Uncle Chewie that Kylo got the fuck out of there before the guy turned around.

_Kylo: Hey._

_Kylo: Armitage._

_Kylo: This isn’t, like. This isn’t a thing where you’re breaking up with me, but you didn’t want to tell me, right?_

Kylo is halfway home before he receives a response. He yanks his phone out immediately, swipes it open even though he’s standing in the middle of the street, and it’s—

It’s an image of Armitage’s left hand. His hand is filthy—covered with dirt and grime, and the glint of something that looks like it might be a burr of metal—but the jet-black engagement ring is there, snugged tight at the base of his fourth finger.

Kylo exhales heavily with relief.

_Armitage: Of course not, Kylo._

_Armitage: Oh, shit, six days since we last texted? Time got away on me._

_Kylo: Yeah. I’m still here, though._

(Relief is making his fingers shake a little, and he has to correct his text message a couple of times before hitting send.)

_Armitage: I should hope so._

_Armitage: Aren’t there still, like, a million things on that list of yours?_

_Kylo: Yeah, there are._

_Kylo: :)_

_Armitage: :)_

 

The next day, Kylo makes a lunch for Armitage, sneaks up to the graduate studios on his break to drop the container outside Armitage’s door, texts him so he knows about it, and then retreats back to the remainder of his classes.

Afterwards, he goes to the gym. Phasma is showing up more and more when Kylo is there now, and she usually wanders over to where he is and puts him through extra training. He keeps checking at the front desk for the amount he owes for the extra sessions—and they never know anything about it, so Kylo counts it as an apology and lets it lie.

He’s exhausted by the time he gets home, doesn’t have energy to do much more than just crawl into bed, and pet Millicent—so the text message, when he gets it, is a really nice surprise.

_Armitage: Thanj you._

_Armitage: Thank you. Sorry, can hardly see straight. I’m waiting for this to dry. What are you doing?_

_Armitage: Oh, shit, you’re probably asleep._

Kylo flips over to his camera, stretches out on the bed, and takes a selfie. It’s probably not the best angle—his hair is wet from the shower, and he’s all nose and ears—but he sends the picture anyway.

_Armitage: Oh, you’re lovely, Kylo._

_Armitage: Just what I needed to see._

Kylo blushes, puts his hand over his face and sends another picture.

_Armitage: Will you look like that when I’m_

_Armitage: Shit, timer._

_Armitage: Gotta go._

Kylo sighs. He gives it a few more minutes, just in case Armitage texts back—but after twenty minutes with no response, Kylo flips over his phone, and falls asleep.

 

Over the weekend, Kylo moves his stuff into the undergrad studio. He normally hates it here because there’s too many people, and they all stare at him while he works—but Armitage is right. It’s easier to work on a bigger piece in a bigger space, and if Kylo scowls at everyone, pulls the hood of his hoodie up, they generally leave him alone.

Plus, there’s not much point in being alone in the apartment when Armitage isn’t there.

At least when he’s on campus, he knows that Armitage is around somewhere.

(He tucks a handwritten note into Armitage’s lunch that day to let him know that he’s painting on campus now.)

 

The undergrad studio is quiet on Monday—except no sooner does Kylo start to get into the zone than he hears the murmur from other undergrads.

“Holy shit, is that—holy shit, why is he here?”

“Somebody’s in shit.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Kylo yanks the hood of his hoodie up over his head, and stares at his canvas again. Something about the nebula is slightly off, and he can’t figure out if he’s gone wrong with the colours, or if it’s just a matter of scale, and maybe if he just—

“Ren.”

Kylo turns, and it’s—

—it’s Armitage.

No—it’s _Hux_. He’s wearing a leather apron speckled with burn marks and tight black leather gloves that stretch up past his wrists. There are welding goggles perched on top of his head, holding back his hair, and a respirator dangling loosely around his neck.

There’s a smear of something on his cheek, and Kylo wants to lick it right off.

“Uh,” Kylo says eloquently.

“Ren,” Hux repeats. “With me.” And he turns, crisply, and heads off.

Kylo doesn’t even bother packing anything up. He just tosses his brush down, and follows after Hux.

(Everyone is watching him. He doesn’t give a shit.)

 

Armitage doesn’t say a goddamn word to him the entire way down to the bowels of the art department, and it’s probably just as well, because Kylo’s having a bit of a hard time breathing. It’s been—a week? Two weeks?—since he’s actually seen Armitage in person, and he’s just so— _Hux_ right now, elegant and untouchable, stern and severe and terrifying except that when Hux stops at a door, pulls it open and holds it for Kylo—Kylo is pretty sure he can see the slight bulge of Armitage’s engagement right under his glove.

“After you,” Hux says curtly, holding a door open for Kylo. “All the way to the back wall, and then turn left.”

Kylo follows his directions. The room he enters is a shop of some kind, and it’s loud and echoing. There are saws going and machines chugging away, a CNC machine off to one side and some kind of vacuum press on the other side. People are looking at him as he comes in, people are staring—he feels way younger than everybody else in here, and he sees the way their eyes fixate on him, and then slide off to the side when they see Armitage walking purposefully behind him.

“Come on, yeah?” Armitage says from behind him. “We’re short on time.”

“Sorry,” Kylo says. “I—”

And then he gets to the back and rounds the corner, goes into a curtained-off space and finally sees what Armitage has been working on and—

—and all his words dry up in his throat, because what Armitage has been working on is a life-size sculpture of a human being, bent over backwards in—

Oh.

Oh _fuck_.

The figure is male, bent over backward in a modified king pigeon, thick thighs and broad shoulders. Big ears, big nose, full lips, and far, far too familiar.

“Is this—is this me?” Kylo asks. His voice cracks, and all he can think about is the echo of Armitage’s camera clicking in his ears.

“Of course it is,” Armitage says, his voice soft. He rests his chin on Kylo’s shoulder, and his hands on Kylo’s hips. His respirator is digging into Kylo’s back.

“It _looks_ like me,” Kylo says in wonder.

“Of course it does,” Armitage says, a little tightly, accent sharpening. “You thought it would somehow look like someone else? I have years of experience and—”

“It looks like _me_ ,” Kylo says again. “You can’t—I thought you were working on your thesis, Armitage.” He wants to step closer to get a better look at it, but if he goes closer, he’ll be moving away from Armitage, and he can’t move away from Armitage right now. (He might not be able to move away from Armitage _ever_.)

The sculpture is raised up off the ground, presumably to allow Armitage to work on it without having to be bent over all the time. There’s a slightly rickety stepladder dragged over by the far end of it, and a table that’s covered with Armitage’s tools. The tools are laid out neatly and organized, and there’s a notebook left open on one corner of the table—but there’s also takeout containers in the garbage under the table, the lunch containers from the food Kylo had dropped off washed and neatly stacked on one end, and a set of slippers next to Armitage’s coat.

“You’ve been down here the whole time,” Kylo says. “Are you sleeping in your studio upstairs?”

“I’ve been working,” Armitage murmurs into his ear, fingers tugging up the hem of Kylo’s shirt, gloved hands rubbing at Kylo’s exposed skin.

“I don’t think you’ve showered,” Kylo says, tipping his head back and relaxing under Armitage’s gloved hands, the leather on his bare skin. “Not that I mind. It’s just not like you.”

It’s not even bad, is the thing—Armitage normally smells like soap, like shampoo and whatever he’s last bathed with—but Kylo can smell his skin now, his sweat, can feel the lankness of Armitage’s hair against his neck. Kylo is starting to get hard. He’s never seen Armitage like this before.

“Been busy,” Armitage says, voice going a little breathy as he nuzzles into Kylo’s neck. “On my thesis.”

(Kylo can feel the lump of Armitage’s engagement ring through the glove, and he shivers. The leather is warm and soft on his skin, and Armitage is _touching_ him, Armitage is _here_ , Armitage has made a _statue_ of him—)

“But this—”

“This is my thesis now,” Armitage says hotly into Kylo’s ear. “You’re looking right at _Starkiller_ , version two point oh.”

_It’s me_ , Kylo thinks, _oh fuck, it’s me_. _His thesis is me, oh fuck—_

“God, I’ve missed you,” Armitage says, and he kisses Kylo’s neck hard, sucks at the skin loud enough that Kylo is sure it’s audible from outside the curtains. “How’s Millicent, how’s my sweet girl?”

“She’s doing—doing well,” Kylo says. He’s still staring at—at Armitage’s thesis, because it’s a life-sized sculpture of _him_ , and he doesn’t know how to process that. “She misses you, keeps sticking her ass in my face when I’m trying to sleep.”

Armitage chuckles, places another sucking kiss on Kylo’s neck. “And how are you doing, in that big bed all alone at night?”

“I’m—fuck, Armitage,” Kylo says. He can’t stop staring at the fucking sculpture, at the slow dawning realization that Armitage has spent this entire time, just—just recreating Kylo’s body off a series of photos in such detail that Kylo can’t see any inaccuracies at all. It looks as though Kylo himself has been posing for Armitage for weeks, and he imagines doing exactly that, inverted over backwards in yoga pants with Armitage staring at him, taking measurements, touching him with something sharp as he measures the distance from Kylo’s ribs to his hips, the circumference of his thigh, the angle of his knee. “I’m sleeping okay, yeah.”

“I keep waiting,” Armitage says. “At night, when it’s getting late. When you’re sleeping, wondering if you’re having a hard time getting to sleep.” He exhales heavily on Kylo’s neck, and then kisses him there again.

Kylo stifles a groan, shifts a little to accommodate his hardening dick. Armitage’s hands are still on his bare stomach, caressing his skin there. On instinct, Kylo tenses his abs, and Armitage sighs into his neck.

“You don’t even have to leave the bed now,” Armitage says. “You can just—take that glorious dick out right there—”

There’s a horrifically loud buzzing sound, and Armitage curses, pulls away from Kylo.

Kylo blinks. His neck stings where Armitage had been kissing him, he’s achingly hard, and he’s still trying to find the words to string together to tell Armitage—

“Time’s up,” Armitage says, a little sourly. He pulls his goggles back down over his eyes, grabs his respirator and yanks the top strap higher up on his head, holding the bulk of the thing in his palm. “I’m right back into the chemicals again, you can show yourself out.”

“When will you—”

“I’ll be done when I’m done,” Armitage says. He looks up at Kylo, and his mouth softens. “You can text me, alright?”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, grinning and blushing and wanting nothing more than to just crawl underneath the table and watch Armitage for the rest of the day even though he knows he won’t fit, even though he knows he has to go back to his own work. “Yeah, okay.” He leans forward and kisses Armitage’s cheek. “I’ll text you.”

 

His hardon has faded by the time he gets back upstairs to the undergrad studio. Nobody will make eye contact with him when he gets back up there—maybe they’ve all assumed that he’s in shit over something, but it’s just as well, because Kylo’s not entirely certain he’s coherent enough to speak to anyone.

After he stares at his own painting for twenty minutes, seeing nothing except the sculpture Armitage has been working on, Kylo finally has the wherewithal to text back.

_Kylo: I’d take my dick out again in that bed and let you watch._

_Kylo: It was worth sleeping in the wet spot just to have you watching me._

_Kylo: You made it so good for me._

Once Kylo starts texting, it’s like he can’t stop. He texts Armitage again later that night ( _thinking of you, wish you were here_ ), and then again the next morning at the gym ( _wish you were here to watch me, Phasma says I’m doing really good_ ). The responses he gets back from Armitage are brief, and frequently contain typos. Kylo worries—but he worries quietly, and he drops off tea, and he drops off baking from Resistance, and he absolutely does not drop off the baking he attempts at home.

(He does send photos to Rey, though, just so she can have a good laugh over the rock-hard cake. He’s still not quite certain what went wrong with that one.)

 

Kylo skips the gym one evening, busses all the way out to a furniture store, and buys a matched set of modern end tables. They look a little out of place in the apartment, but he’s pretty sure Armitage will like them.

It’ll give him somewhere to put his glasses.

 

The sensation of Kylo’s phone going off in his pocket is so foreign that it takes him a minute to register it. He’s holed up in a cubicle on the fifth floor of the library trying to pare a twenty-five-thousand word paper down to the maximum twelve-thousand-five-hundred that the prof will allow, he’s surrounded by books, and his phone going off throws him for a moment.

He swipes it open.

_Unknown Number: I’m done._

Kylo laboriously types in what Rey has assured him is a meme.

_Kylo: new phone who dis_

_Unknown Number: It’s Armitage. I’m done. And I got another new number. Same phone though._

_Kylo: OMG ARMITAGE. HI._

_Kylo: Holy shit, done-done?_

_Armitage: Done this phase of it, yeah. Had to re-order a bunch of LEDs because I scaled the thing up, so what I had wasn’t working. They’re going to be a few weeks to ship._

_Kylo: Whoa, it’s fucking lit?_

_Armitage: Yeah, it’s actually filled with_

_Armitage: No._

_Armitage: I’m going to scream if I keep talking about this, I want to not talk about this._

_Armitage: Where are you?_

_Kylo: Library._

_Armitage: Are you busy?_

_Armitage: You must be. You’re not home. Made you something._

_[Armitage has sent a picture!]_

Kylo opens the picture, squints at it for a moment. It’s the list from the fridge, everything written on it just as—wait. There’s something on the bottom, written in pencil in Armitage’s cramped printing. Kylo zooms in on the phone, squints at it, and—

  1. _Sexting_



Oh.

_Oh._

_Kylo: That looks good._

_Armitage: So are you busy?_

_Kylo: Shit, like, now?_

_Kylo: Uh._

_Kylo: I’m at the library._

_Armitage: Prove it._

Kylo runs his hand back through his hair, takes a quick selfie and sends it without stressing over it.

_Kylo: Now you._

Kylo flips his phone over so he doesn’t end up sitting here staring at the screen, stares back at his essay. He’s close, he’s really close, he just needs to somehow scale it back a little bit, just a little bit—

His phone buzzes. Kylo quickly picks the phone up, flips it over.

Armitage is in the bath. He’s taken a photo of his bare feet propped up against the tap, his knees open and splayed out to the sides. The bubbles are thick enough that Kylo can’t see anything under the water—but, oh, Armitage is plenty stunning just like this, all long legs and pink feet. His toenails are shinier than usual.

_Kylo: oh, fuck. You look gorgeous._

_Armitage: Yeah?_

_Kylo: Yeah, totally._

_Kylo: Did you sleep yet, or is this a pre-sleeping ritual?_

_Armitage: I slept._

_Armitage: This is a pre-wanking ritual._

_Kylo: Armitage._

_Kylo: Fuck._

_Kylo: Can I_

_Kylo: Please._

_Armitage: None of those words are sentences, Kylo._

_Armitage: Can you what?_

Armitage follows that text with a selfie. His hair looks to have been recently washed—it’s fluffy and bright instead of lank and darkened by grease, and he’s grinning mischievously at the camera.

Kylo hesitates for a moment. Takes a deep breath, exhales. There’s no point in drawing it out. There’s no point in not asking for what he wants. There’s no point in being weird about it. This is what the list is for—to teach Kylo how to ask for what he wants.

(He’s going to ask Armitage to make it real. Just—just not yet. In a little bit. He’s going to add more items onto the list first, extend things out a bit just so that Armitage can get through the worst parts of his thesis. Maybe, after a year at this, Armitage will see that Kylo doesn’t care how it started, or under what pretences it worked under—he just wants them to be together, that’s all. That’s all it’s ever been.)

_Kylo: I literally can’t stop thinking about you from last time, when I walked in on you by accident. I didn’t even know that I wanted to overhear you, it’s just that once I heard you say my name I didn’t want anything else, just that, over and over and over again. I know we never really sat down and talked that out because things got really complicated right after but I think things are getting easier now and I just wanted to make sure that you know that that was the single hottest thing that has ever happened to me in my life, except for hopefully right now, because please, will you let me watch? I don’t have to participate, I don’t have to touch you, I don’t have to do anything, I just want to see you, Armitage. I just want to watch you. I’ll do anything you want, if you can please just let me be there. I want to be there, Armitage. I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything._

He sends the text, then checks the word count on his essay. His heart is pounding in his throat. Twenty thousand words, so he’s got seven thousand and change left to cut, which is fine, because he can—

His phone buzzes. Another picture message. Armitage’s face, turned to the side, hand obscuring his features. He’s flushed red from his cheek down his neck into his chest, skin splotchy.

_Armitage: Now look what you’ve done._

_Armitage: Tease._

_Kylo: I’m almost done my paper, Armitage, I swear._

_Kylo: I’ll come home right after._

_Kylo: I’ll take a cab._

_Armitage: How long?_

_Kylo: An hour? I have to cut another seven thousand words and make sure that my citations are accurate._

_Armitage: Take two. I’ll be here, okay?_

_Kylo: Text me?_

_Armitage: You need to concentrate._

_Kylo: I’ll concentrate, I swear it._

_Kylo: But I’m thinking about you anyways._

_Kylo: Please text me?_

He sends Armitage a selfie—the best puppy dog face he can muster, lower lip pouted.

_Armitage: Fine._

_Armitage: I’m in the tub for another twenty minutes or so._

_Armitage: I’ll text you when I’m out._

_Kylo: Thank you._

Kylo makes sure his phone is still on vibrate, sets it on his lap, and starts in on the essay.

Fifteen minutes later, he gets a photo of Armitage’s legs again, this time freshly towelled off, and bare to the hip, where the towel is just barely covering him.

_Kylo: I was thinking about buying bigger towels._

_Kylo: I’m definitely not going to now._

_Armitage: Even if you had, I’d just hike them up and send you these pictures anyway._

_Kylo: What’s next on the agenda now that your bath is done?_

_Armitage: How close are you?_

_Kylo: Trimmed out a thousand words. Six thousand left, plus tidying citations._

_Armitage: I’m going to get started then._

_Kylo: Wait._

_Kylo: I thought you were waiting?_

_Kylo: Armitage?_

_Kylo: Armitage?_

_Kylo: damn it hux_

_Armitage: All the way from ‘Armitage’ to ‘damn it hux’ in less than a minute, that’s gotta be a new record._

_Armitage: Are you serious about what you said earlier?_

_Armitage: About wanting to watch?_

_Armitage: It’s probably going to be intense._

_Of course_ , Kylo wants to text back. _Obviously_. Except he knows by now that if he looks like he’s taking it lightly, Armitage is just going to ignore him—so he bites his lip until the urge to text back immediately passes, and instead types out _How intense?_

When he receives a reply, he only looks at it for a fraction of a second before immediately hiding his phone, checking to make sure that nobody’s anywhere near him. The cubicle behind him is still empty, but Kylo still slouches a little further down in the chair, turns his back to the wall before he opens his phone up again.

It’s a picture of Armitage’s arm, and there’s an obscenely large flesh-coloured dildo with molded veins right next to it. The foreskin on the dildo is still pulled up over the head, which looks completely bizarre.

_Kylo: I didn’t realize it was that big._

_Kylo: Holy shit._

_Armitage: Well, you are, aren’t you?_

_Armitage: You heard me saying your name._

_Armitage: This is why._

_Armitage: I’m reasonably certain that the width isn’t quite right, though._

_Armitage: But that’s okay. I can measure with my fingers this afternoon._

_Kylo: please please please please don’t put hat in bf I come home armitage ples_

_Armitage: You still have an hour and a half._

_Armitage: You don’t honestly think I can just take this cold, do you?_

_Kylo: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa_

_Armitage: Work on your essay, sweetheart._

_Armitage: I’m changing the sheets on the bed._

_Armitage: Slept in them when I got home this morning, they’re filthy._

_Kylo: Spares in the linen closet._

_Armitage: Essay, Kylo._

_Kylo: yes._

Kylo takes a deep breath. Okay, he thinks. Okay. It’s just that he hadn’t—whew. He’s pretty certain that his dick isn’t that big, isn’t nearly as big as that monstrous dildo—but even just the thought that Armitage purchased it trying to get something to approximate Kylo is so hot that Kylo can hardly think, can hardly function, can hardly breathe—

Okay.

He closes his eyes shut for a moment, and then opens them up, and starts tearing into his essay again.

 

Thirty minutes later, he gets another text.

_Armitage: word count?_

_Kylo: Three thousand down, four thousand left to cut. Might kill an entire section, but then I’m gonna be under, so it’s kind of a disaster. Haven’t touched citations._

Then he gets a picture. Armitage’s hand, placed demurely over his crotch, fire-red pubes just barely visible next to his pinky finger.

_Armitage: This is what I’m touching._

_Kylo: Armitage._

_Kylo: My essay._

_Armitage: You still have an hour._

_Armitage: But I have lofty goals._

_Armitage: And I need to get started._

_Armitage: I promise I won’t do anything fun until you get here._

_Kylo: Does it actually take that long?_

_Kylo: That’s kinda scary._

_Kylo: If it takes that long._

_Armitage: Kylo._

_Armitage: I _like_ it to take that long._

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut again. Four thousand more words. He can gently excise four thousand more words, without needing to kill any sections, and then everything is going to be fine. Everything is going to be absolutely fine.

_Armitage: Sorry._

_Armitage: Shouldn’t have texted that._

_Armitage: It was a joke, haha._

_Armitage: I won’t do anything until you get home._

_Armitage: I’ll just wait._

_Kylo: No, that’s not what I meant._

_Kylo: You should do what you want, Armitage._

_Kylo: I’m going as fast as I can, okay?_

_Kylo: I’ll catch up when I get home. It won’t take me long._

_Kylo: I miss you._

Kylo sighs heavily, looks back at the essay. He’s close. He just needs to focus, and as soon he’s done, he’s going to go home, and pet Armitage’s hair, or whatever it is that he needs, because Kylo’s getting the sense that Armitage needs something other than—

His phone vibrates.

It’s a full-body shot of Armitage, hand in—holy shit, hand shoved inside a set of skimpy pink briefs, cupping his cock. He’s turned to the side slightly, so Kylo can’t quite see how hard he is—but based on how Armitage’s head is thrown back, mouth open, tongue visible, he’s definitely not soft.

(There is a _lot_ of Armitage’s thigh visible.)

_Armitage: This is_

_Armitage: what I want_

_Armitage: except with you here_

_Armitage: if you want to be._

Kylo looks back at his laptop, highlights most of the last four pages, and deletes them entirely. There. The section is gone, the word count is significantly improved.

_Kylo: Just checking citations._

_Kylo: Be home right away._

_Kylo: I want to see everything._

The citations are probably fine.

He’s sure the citations are fine.

He opens up an email, attaches his essay—and then, cursing, deletes the attachment, opens the essay back up again, and checks his citations standing at the cubicle, shifting his weight from foot to foot as though that’s somehow going to help him figure out his citations any faster. They look fine, they look fine, they look—oh, fuck, there’s a ton of them he no longer needs because of the section he removed, and he just has to—fuck, fuck, fuck, fix it as quick as he can, fuck—

He throws it together as quickly as he can, saves the essay. Re-opens it, checks it, saves it again and attaches it to his email, sends it through.

Slides his laptop in his bag and tosses his bag over his shoulder, texting Armitage with one hand as he uses the other to balance himself on the stairs, running down them as fast as he can.

_Kylo: coming home literally right now_

_Kylo: show me what I’m missing baby_

The attached photo is completely indecipherable—just a blur of flushed skin and something that’s either a glimpse of Armitage’s pubes or his hair, but without enough resolution for Kylo to be able to tell if the hair is curly or straight, and—

—Kylo needs to be home, like, twenty minutes ago.

This is going to be _amazing_.

 

Kylo comes into the apartment as quietly as he can, trying to force himself to breathe quietly, hoping that he can hear—

“Kylo?”

Kylo exhales hard. “I was trying to sneak in,” he calls. “Can you just, like—pretend I’m not here for a second?”

There’s silence for a moment, and Kylo immediately regrets that he’s said anything, because obviously it was a terrible idea to—

From just past the kitchen, Armitage moans, breathy and long. Silence for a moment, and then he moans again, shifts around on the bed. Both moans sound staged, but Kylo stands in the kitchen for a few more minutes, quietly loosening the laces on his shoes, and after a moment or two, Armitage’s moans go up in pitch and become less regular, and Kylo quietly creeps into the main room of their apartment and—

Armitage Hux is mostly naked, sprawled out across their bed, and he is _gorgeous_ , all sex-flushed and slightly sweaty, hair a complete mess. Eyes closed, mouth open, making those breathy little gasps that Kylo loves so much. He’s got one hand on his hip next to the gorgeous pink underwear he’s wearing—and the underwear is darkened in a few places with wet smears where his cock has leaked right into them. His other hand is across his chest, pinching one of his nipples—and it looks like Armitage has been doing that for a while, because even the untouched nipple is red and peaked, standing up from his chest.

His eyelashes flutter open.

“Armitage,” Kylo breathes.

“Oh, you came back to me,” Armitage says, voice uneven and shaking. “I’ve been waiting so long…”

“You’re fucking stunning,” Kylo says reverently. He never wants to stop looking at Armitage. “How long have you been touching yourself?”

“Sixty-three minutes,” Armitage says. “More or less.” He moves his hand from his chest to his hair, tugs on it slightly, and moans. Tightens his other hand on his hip, arching his back and displaying his barely-covered erection to Kylo.

Kylo blinks. This is _amazing_ , and he hasn’t even crossed the room yet, he hasn’t even gotten into bed with Armitage yet, he hasn’t—oh, fucking _hell_ , Armitage is going to jack off for him and Kylo gets to see the entire thing this time, instead of just having to hear bits and pieces of it through a mostly-closed door.

(Kylo is so hard that it hurts a little, and there’s no way he’s going to be able to last long enough for anything, and he wishes—wishes he had more self-control, wishes he could wait, wishes he could—)

Armitage stops writhing on the bed, props himself up on his elbow. “So?”

“Uh.”

“Are you going to get undressed and come over?”

“This is about you,” Kylo demurs, suddenly unsure about moving, or engaging, wondering whether he was too pushy about asking for this, wondering—

“And I’m _asking_ you to come over here,” Armitage says. “And I’m telling you that you can get undressed, if you want to.”

“Yeah?”

Armitage grins at him wickedly. “Yeah.”

“Sure,” Kylo says, and he can suddenly move again—and so he yanks his shirt over his head, stumbles his way out of his pants, pulls off his socks. He considers, briefly, leaving his underwear on—but then realizes that he’s wearing a remarkably unattractive set that he’s had for years, and so he pulls those off too, dick swinging up and smacking him wetly in the stomach as he does so.

He approaches the bed, conscious of Armitage’s eyes on him. Conscious of Armitage’s eyes on his cock.

“I like your…text messages,” Armitage says, and then his mouth twists oddly for a moment. “They were…nice.”

Kylo waits beside the bed. “I want—Armitage, you’re so fucking gorgeous, can I—can I come up on the bed with you?”

“Of course you can,” Armitage says. “Get up here.”

Kylo gets up on the bed, shuffles over until he’s close to Armitage. “Can I touch you?”

Armitage reaches down, fusses with the waistband of his underwear a moment before putting both hands up above his head and stretching out the long length of his body on the bed. “Please,” he says, breathy. “Touch me.” Then his voice evens out for a moment. “Don’t make me come, though. Just—draw it out for me, yeah? I don’t want to come any time soon.”

“Of course,” Kylo says. “I can—I can do that, yeah.”

When he reaches for Armitage, his hands are shaking. Armitage is bathed in sunlight, sprawled out on the bed. His skin is warm to the touch in some places, hot in others. The back of his neck is hot and damp, his chest is warm and dry. His face is hot and flushed. Lips damp.

Armitage darts his tongue out to lick Kylo’s fingers, swirls his tongue around them the same way he swirls it around Kylo’s dick, and Kylo groans.

“How the fuck are you so sexy?”

“Practice,” Armitage says impishly. He laves his tongue over Kylo’s fingers again, easily swallows two of them all the way back until his tongue is lapping at Kylo’s palm and Kylo’s fingertips are pressing at the back of his throat, and then sucks down the length of them to Kylo’s fingertips. “And I pay a _lot_ of attention to you, Kylo. To what you like.”

“Can I kiss you?” Kylo asks, resting his spit-wet fingers on Armitage’s lips.

“Please do,” Armitage replies, and he tips his mouth to Kylo’s in order to be kissed.

His lips are warm and wet and lovely, and Kylo sinks easily into them, the amount of pressure and tongue and lips and teeth making sense now, just because they’ve practised so much, because they’ve done this so much, and Kylo is taken aback all over again by how much fun everything is, how sexy Armitage is, how much sheer enjoyment he’s getting out of everything.

When they finally break for air, they’re both panting.

“Fast learner,” Armitage says, wrapping his hand around the back of Kylo’s neck and pulling himself up to plant a soft kiss on Kylo’s cheek.

“I have the best teacher,” Kylo replies, licking the shell of Armitage’s ear just to watch Armitage shudder underneath him. “You are so good to me.” He drags his fingers down Armitage’s chest, circles his nipples, and then gently starts playing with them, just as he’d seen Armitage do earlier.

“You can go—harder,” Armitage says. “Don’t be afraid to—yeah, go ahead and pull—ah, _ah_ , Kylo, _Kylo!_ ”

“Both hands,” Kylo says. “I want to use both hands, here.” He lies down beside Armitage, gently tugs Armitage toward him until Armitage is lying on his side. He’s got access to both nipples this way, and he starts working them both, pulling and tugging at them, pinching and rolling them between his fingers, Armitage gasping and moaning beside him, eyes wide open until they flutter shut and he chews at his lip before opening them wide again.

(In the light of the apartment, Armitage’s eyes look remarkably green.)

“Stop, stop,” Armitage breathes a moment later. His hand has gone to his crotch again, pressing down heavily on his erection. “Too close, too close.”

Kylo murmurs his apology, takes his hands off Armitage’s chest. Looks at him again, really looks at him—eyes to lips, chin to chest, chest to hips and to the elegant pink underwear that he can just barely see underneath the sheet that Armitage keeps tucking over himself.

“I love your underwear,” Kylo says. “Can I—pull the sheet back? May I touch them?”

Armitage inhales, a little shakily. “Yeah, if you want—I didn’t know if you would—wasn’t always—sometimes, it’s a…thing. Not a good thing. With…people.”

“Are you kidding,” Kylo breathes. He tugs the sheet back just enough to see the front of Armitage’s underwear. He can’t stop staring at the fabric, at the dark damp spots where Armitage’s dick has been leaking. “I love them, you look fantastic like this. I didn’t know—I didn’t know they made these for people with penises, I figured—since I was gay I wasn’t ever gonna get anybody dressing up nice for me, I’ve never—seen men in underwear like this before, I didn’t—Armitage, I didn’t know I could have this, I just want—” _Fuck_ , Kylo is so hard he’s aching. He touches his cock with one hand, lightly stroking the shaft of it, and uses his other hand to drag down Armitage’s torso.

He doesn’t know what he expects when he finally touches the panties—but oh, they’re smooth and soft, the fabric silky and luxurious and Kylo doesn’t know if he wants to lick them or tear them off Armitage’s body, except they’re probably expensive. He’s scared that his hands are going to snag them—understands now, maybe, why Armitage is so particular about his own hands—but it feels so nice to stroke Armitage’s dick lightly through the fabric, feels so nice to drag his fingers across Armitage’s pelvis up to his hip, push the sheet back and—

“Change in plans, change in plans!” Armitage says, a little shrilly. He reaches down, grabs Kylo’s wrist. “I’m just—can we—let me suck you off, yeah?”

Kylo nods. “Holy shit, yeah, can you—I’m sorry, I know I always come so quickly—I can’t think, Armitage, I want—”

“Shhh,” Armitage says, shifting on the bed and pushing Kylo down onto his back. “I’ll suck you off, it’ll be good for you.”

“This is supposed to be about you,” Kylo mutters, but he lies back anyway.

Armitage, for his part, grins wickedly, stretches his arms up above his head and cracks his knuckles. He’s stunning like this, up on his knees, his hard cock only just barely contained by his pink panties, and his red hair tousled and messy, falling forward into his eyes until he tosses his head to snap some of it back out of the way. “It’s always about me, Kylo,” he purrs. “Now let me do what I want, yeah?”

“I just,” Kylo says. “I mean—I’m really happy about the blowjob, but the point was you masturbating …”

Armitage looks up at him, blows a stray chunk of his own hair out of his eyes. “Oh, Kylo,” he says. “Did you think that giving you a blowjob _wasn’t_ part of my masturbatory routine?”

Kylo flushes, throws his head back into the pillow as Armitage bends down and takes Kylo’s dick in his mouth. “Holy fuck, Armitage, that feels amazing, holy fuck—”

“Deepthroating is an art,” Armitage says, pulling off Kylo’s dick in order to smirk at him, and then going right back down onto him again, humming slightly against his length, and doing that goddamn thing with his tongue that Kylo is never going to be able to replicate, not now, not ever—

“Holy fuck, I’m gonna come if you—if you keep that up,” Kylo says. “Armitage, Armitage—” He reaches out blindly, manages to get his hands in Armitage’s hair and _pull_ just as he starts to come, and fuck, it’s even more glorious having his cock down Armitage’s throat like this, Armitage’s tongue twitching against him, and—

Armitage gags and chokes, pulling off Kylo’s cock, semen drooling out of his mouth and back onto Kylo’s pelvis.

“Oh holy fuck,” Kylo curses. “I’m so sorry, Armitage.”

Armitage coughs wetly into his arm, wipes his eyes. Looks up at Kylo, smiling, dick hard and pushing against his pink underwear. “Don’t be,” he says, voice raspy and thick. “I mean, yeah, generally you should let a guy know before you do that.”

“I didn’t mean—”

Armitage puts up his hand, stopping Kylo. “But,” Armitage says. “I liked it. You’re still pretty new at this, and I’m gonna give you a pass for the accidental skullfucking, alright?”

“Thank you.” Kylo swallows. “You’ve got, uh. On your chin.”

Armitage smirks again, wipes Kylo’s come off his chin with the tips of his fingers, and then puts those fingers right into his mouth and sucks on them theatrically, fluttering his eyelashes as he does it.

“You don’t have to flutter at me,” Kylo says. His heartbeat feels irregular.

Armitage does it again, fluttering his eyelashes like a vintage femme fatale. “I do what I want,” he says. “This is my masturbating time.” He reaches down, palms himself through his underwear. He’s softened a little, but not much—and the wet patches, the smears of precome on his underwear are even more obvious now than they were before, the pink fabric clinging to the outline of his dick.

Kylo’s mouth is dry. “Uh, what now?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbows. “When you’re…when you’re jacking off. What do you usually do now?”

“Oh,” Armitage says vaguely. “Lots of things, really. Depending on how intense I want to get. Depending on how much time I have.”

Kylo waits, but realizes after a moment that there’s no additional information forthcoming. “… very intense, because you have all the time you can possibly have in the world?”

Armitage opens his mouth, and Kylo sees the glint of _Hux_ in his eyes, sees that he’s going to get corrected or talked down to or—and then Armitage sighs and relaxes, and he’s right back to _Armitage_ again. “So we should talk some ground rules,” Armitage says, fingers idly touching his cock through his underwear. “You’re under no obligation to participate. You’re under no obligation to stay. You shouldn’t feel like you have to react in specific ways, because however you would like to react is going to be fine, up to and including getting dressed and going for a walk if you need to. I’m not going to be offended at anything that you do or don’t do. My face is up here,” he says, gesturing and smirking. “You can always look at my face if you’re weirded out by anything else.” He frowns, an expression so small that Kylo knows he wouldn’t have seen it even just a few months ago. “I wish you’d let me show you some porn before this.”

“Don’t want to,” Kylo says. “I want to see you, Armitage. I want to learn it from you.”

Another flurry of micro-expressions flies across Armitage’s face. “Well, I’m going to lie down, then,” he says. “Would you like to make yourself useful and grab my things from the bathroom sink?”

“I can do that,” Kylo says. He sits up, cock smearing on his thigh as he stands, adjusts his balls where they’re stuck between his legs. He’s hyper-aware of Armitage watching him as he walks to the bathroom, but doesn’t know what to do to make it sexier for him, settles for making an effort not to roll his shoulders inwards.

The bathroom sink is full of soapy water that may have been warm at one point in time, but is definitely cool now. Most of the bubbles have dissolved, and the ones that remain are clinging valiantly to the sides of the sink, and so Kylo has a clear view of exactly what’s inside—the replica cock that Armitage had sent him a picture of earlier that does not, in any way, remind Kylo of his own dick, because surely if he severed his dick from his body, it would be—less impressive than this? A second dildo, this one more abstract, marbled pink and white with gold flecks randomly throughout, giving the entire thing a lovely sparkle. And then the third thing, shorter and squat, and made of—glass?

It’s this object that Kylo reaches in to pick up first, amazed at how heavy the thing is. It’s obviously glass, clear on the outside and swirled in teals and blues throughout the middle, possibly hand-blown, and Kylo didn’t even know that such a thing could be done with glass, much less that people would put this kind of love and artistry into sex toys.

He holds the glass item carefully in his right hand, too concerned about dropping it to carry it _with_ any of the other objects. Picks up the other two with his left hand, and then rinses all three off and carefully wraps them in a clean towel. The replica dick is made of something soft on the outside layer, but feels firm when Kylo presses into it with his thumb. The smaller pink abstract one, though, is just firm the entire way through, and he wonders which one Armitage had been using when he’d called Kylo’s name—

Kylo drains the sink, splashes his face with cold water, and goes back to the bed.

Armitage is lying in the centre of the bed, staring at up the ceiling and panting slightly, rotating his wrists and flexing them forward and back. The patches of precome that had soaked through his underwear before have combined into one larger spot now, a spot so wet that it’s shining slightly in the light, and Kylo’s breath catches in his chest.

“These are the packages you ordered that you were all squirrely about?” Kylo asks. (He’s put together that much, at least, even if he still feels remarkably slow on everything else.) “Three sex toys?”

“Four,” Armitage corrects.

Kylo’s face is suddenly hot, and something in his chest twists and then drops out the bottom of his stomach. His eyes immediately go to Armitage’s underwear, but he can’t see much more at this angle than his bulge—damp, sexy, _glorious_ —and his thighs touching.

Armitage smiles at him, gestures to the bed. “Go ahead and set those down.”

“The fourth toy,” Kylo says. “It’s not, like, under the sink or something.”

“No,” Armitage says.

“It’s not under the bed.”

Armitage’s answering grin is light, and his eyes sparkle.

Kylo sets the toys down gently at the head of the bed, looks at the bed as he determines where to sit—but then Armitage pulls his knees up and turns to the side, making a space for Kylo at the foot of the bed, and so Kylo goes and sits there, cross-legged. Reaches out and gently touches one of Armitage’s feet, drags his fingers along the sole of his foot. Armitage’s feet are soft, his nails perfectly shaped and slightly glittery, the arch of his foot somehow fascinating for Kylo in a way that he doesn’t really understand, and doesn’t want to be weird about.

“Hmmm,” Kylo says, letting his fingers drop to the bed. “Well, I don’t feel anything under the sheets here.” He runs his fingers up to Armitage’s knee, slides his hand between Armitage’s knees. “And there’s nothing between your knees.”

Armitage snorts inelegantly. “Keep looking.”

Kylo runs the flat of his hand between Armitage’s thighs. He’s breathing heavily, and he knows it, but he’s too into this to really particularly care. It’s too early for him to start getting hard again—but he doesn’t think he’s going to have a problem doing it, especially not when Armitage is like this, all sex-flushed and happy, hard and willing and waiting for Kylo to—

Kylo’s pinky brushes up against something firm, low between Armitage’s legs. “Oh,” he says, stupidly.

Armitage laughs.

“I mean, I knew!” Kylo says defensively. “I just—I didn’t expect I’d be able to—”

“Anything that goes up your arse needs a flared base,” Armitage says dryly. “Otherwise you’re going to be in for a really awkward trip to the emergency room.”

Kylo’s eyes widen.

“They have,” Armitage gestures vaguely, “tools for that. It’s just embarrassing.” He catches Kylo’s eye. “I’ll tell you about it over drinks sometime.”

“Okay,” Kylo says. He pulls his hand back, puts one hand on either of Armitage’s knees. “Can you, uh. Open your legs for me? I want to touch?”

Armitage raises an eyebrow at him.

“I want to touch,” Kylo says decisively.

Armitage’s normal smirk gets swallowed up by what looks like an honest-to-god grin. He props himself up on his elbows, and then turns over so that he’s on all fours, arches his back and presents his ass to Kylo.

Kylo can hardly breathe. There’s just so much _skin_. “It’s bare,” he says. It’s not the first time he’s sounded like a fucking idiot. It won’t be the last.

(Armitage never seems to mind.)

Armitage snorts into the pillow. “It’s a thong, Kylo.”

“Your ass is so _tiny_.”

Armitage huffs. “Well, I can just turn back over if you don’t—”

“No,” Kylo says. “No, no.” He hesitates a moment, and then puts his bare hands on Armitage, one hand over each ass cheek. Armitage’s ass looks even smaller this way, and his palms completely cover it. “Wow.”

Armitage rocks back into him a little, and Kylo instinctively squeezes. Armitage’s skin is warm, and it’s just so fucking _intimate_ to touch Armitage like this.

“Yes, like that,” Armitage says. “You won’t hurt me.”

From this angle, the bulge of the plug between Armitage’s ass cheeks is obscene, pushing the fabric of the thong outward from his skin. Kylo can’t stop staring at it. He squeezes again, and Armitage sighs, pushes back against him. Kylo slides his hands upward, catches the waistband of the underwear, and slowly starts to pull it down over the slight curve of Armitage’s ass. The underwear catches slightly on the edge of the plug, tugging at it slightly, and Armitage moans, reaches back between his legs.

Kylo keeps sliding the underwear down, exposing the base of the plug. It looks different from what he’d expected—he’d thought it would just be a round protuberance coming out of Armitage’s body, but it’s actually a narrow flat base that nestles between the cheeks of his ass, and he sees, now, what Armitage meant by having a flared base—there’s no way that this could be pulled inside his body, because it’s nestled in there as tight as it goes.

The material—silicone?—is soft to the touch, and almost feathery. There’s a bit of a raised section right in the middle of the flange, and Kylo experimentally presses down on it.

Armitage gasps, pushes back against him.

“Good?” Kylo asks. He can feel himself getting harder. His hands are starting to tremble again.

“Yeah,” Armitage says, voice a little shaky. “That’s right in—yeah.”

Kylo takes his hand off the flange, carefully drags his finger just along the side of the toy. He can feel something slick on the pad of his finger. “Lube?”

“Yeah,” Armitage says. “Silicone, just gotta be careful it won’t—react with the toys—but I’ve tested—all this.”

Kylo leans forward, kisses Armitage’s hip, and then puts the flat of his palm back on the flange, rocks his hand back and forth. It’s intoxicating, the way Armitage moans and shifts back into him, the sounds that come out of him, the entire thing—it’s far more sexy than Kylo had imagined it would be, and he’s suddenly glad that he’s gotten off once already, because this is very close to being overwhelming for him. “What would you do, normally? At this point. If I wasn’t here.”

“Mmm,” Armitage says. “Probably—switch out for the glass plug, and then wait for a little, let my body adjust. Did you want to—did you want to make out with me while I do that? It’ll only take a moment, I’ve got the lube right here, it’ll just take a moment. I can do it without looking.”

“Can I do it?” Kylo blurts.

Armitage looks back at him, mouth a little slack, colour high. “What?”

“Can I switch out the plugs?”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, gaining confidence simply because Armitage isn’t saying _no_. “I’m here, and I want to—I want to see anyways, so…may I do it? I’ll follow your instructions exactly, I’ll be really, really gentle, I absolutely promise.”

Armitage sighs, and then moans a little as Kylo rocks the plug inside him again. “Okay, okay, fine,” he says. “Alright, fine. Here, I’m going to.” He swallows. “I’m going to relax, and you can just—gently pull it out, alright? It’s not all that big, it’s graduated a bit. You don’t need to do anything, you can just—guide it out, or watch, or whatever.”

“Okay,” Kylo says. He grasps the edges of the flange. “Go ahead.”

He can—feel the moment that Armitage bears down on it, gently pushes it out. Kylo grasps the flange as it gets pushed away from his body, and he can see—oh, wow. Fuck. He can see Armitage’s—Armitage’s asshole, gently widening as the plug emerges from it, and he can feel the release of tension in the plug as he holds it, as the widest part of it emerges and then before he knows it, he’s holding the entire thing. It’s still warm from Armitage’s body, and when Kylo looks up at him, Armitage’s asshole is slick from lube, and it looks—just like a regular asshole? Possibly? There’s no hair surrounding Armitage’s, but Kylo doesn’t know if he’s naturally hairless or if he shaves or waxes or what he does, doesn’t know if there’s, like, preparation required to take this or if it can just be—done, like this, cold, or—

“—beside you, there,” Armitage says, a little dryly.

“What?”

“The lube,” Armitage repeats.

Or, at least, Kylo thinks he’s repeating it—to be honest, he hasn’t heard a fucking word Armitage has said, and he tells him as much.

Armitage rolls over onto his back and spreads his legs, tugging his knees up into his chest.

(Kylo can see _everything_.)

“You’ll want to put more lube on the glass plug,” Armitage says. “That’s my least favourite part, my hands are always gross.”

“Oh, yeah,” Kylo says. “I can definitely do that for you, yeah.” He picks up the glass plug, and the bottle of lube. “How much do I—?”

“Get it wet,” Armitage says. “But don’t drench it, I’m already lubed up from earlier. Just make sure the entire thing is covered, alright?”

Kylo nods, drizzles the lube over the plug in his palm. The lube is thicker than he expected, and cold, so he holds it in his hand until it’s warmed up, and then runs his fingers over the plug to make sure that he’s got everything. “Okay, and now?”

“Put it in me,” Armitage says, a little breathy. “Just—slow, and gentle, but you won’t hurt me, okay?”

“Are you sure?” Kylo asks, resting the nose of the plug against Armitage. “It’s so hard.”

Armitage rolls his eyes, and then sighs as Kylo puts pressure on the plug, starts pushing it inside him. It’s fascinating, how Armitage’s body just—yields to the glass as Kylo presses it in, just stretches and gives and opens and takes everything that Kylo is offering, devours it up.

The last little bit of it, the widest part of the plug, is the weirdest—because Kylo can see Armitage’s rim stretching around the glass, and it seems like it should hurt, but Armitage is just panting slightly, head thrown back on the pillow and fingers playing with his own nipples, and he doesn’t look like he’s hurting at all—

“Kylo,” Armitage moans as the plug slides all the way in, his ass clenching and closing around the neck of it. “Oh, thank you, that’s—oh, yes, come up here, yeah?”

Kylo wipes his hands on the towel that he’d brought the sex toys to the bed on, and then does as Armitage asks, lying down beside him. Armitage’s lips are dry, and Kylo kisses him deeply, splaying his hand over Armitage’s hip and pulling him in close. Their bare cocks touch, and Kylo instinctively thrusts up against him.

“I knew it wouldn’t take you long,” Armitage says, and he sounds—proud, almost, and Kylo blushes without meaning to.

“You’re just so hot,” Kylo says.

“Never change,” Armitage says, biting gently at Kylo’s lower lip. “Don’t you ever change, lo—Kylo.”

Kylo buries his face in Armitage’s shoulder, rocks into him again.

“I was wearing this in the tub,” Armitage says. “That day I texted you the picture of my feet. I had this in, and I was lying in the tub, letting it stretch me out, and texting you pictures of me in the bath.”

“I thought I was going to die,” Kylo mutters. “I was sitting in class, and I absolutely thought I was going to die, I don’t know what I’d expected but it really wasn’t that, and it was just—holy shit, Armitage, do you know how hot you are?”

“I’m complicated,” Armitage demurs. “After this is all over—”

Kylo pulls back and kisses Armitage on the mouth, pushes his tongue against Armitage’s in the hopes that he can shove the words back down into Armitage’s throat so that they never come out, because Kylo doesn’t want to hear them now or ever or—doesn’t want to do anything, just wants to—just wants to do this. He grinds his cock up against Armitage’s again. “Feels so good,” he slurs. “It feels absolutely amazing, your cock against mine, I want—I want to know—what do you normally do, what would you do right now, what would you—”

“Fuck myself,” Armitage gasps. “I’d fuck myself with a dildo, and I’d imagine how it would be if you were here, if you were watching me, if you were—fucking m—ah, here. If you were here.”

“I’m here now,” Kylo says, and he’s so close to being overwhelmed completely except that Armitage doesn’t have any expectations for him, so it’s not—it’s not scary, it’s not intimidating, because it’s—because it’s Armitage, and no matter what happens, Kylo knows that he’s safe with Armitage, Kylo knows that Armitage isn’t going to hurt him, Kylo knows that Armitage has never been anything but— “I love you,” Kylo gasps. “Armitage, I love you.”

Armitage shudders, full body, curls onto his side and shoves his hand roughly between them. “Shit shit shit shit fuck fuck fuck Kylo you can’t just—you can’t just—Kylo, holy fuck, I almost—Kylo, Kylo, Kylo could you—Kylo, fuck, Kylo.”

Kylo swipes his hand across his eyes, looks down. Armitage has his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, is squeezing himself so tightly that his knuckles are bloodless. “Did you—?” Kylo asks.

Armitage grits his teeth audibly, breathes heavily for a few moments, and then, finally, uses his other hand to unclench his fingers from around his cock. “Remarkably close,” he says, voice ragged. “But crisis averted.” He looks up at Kylo with red-rimmed eyes, and then rests his sweat-damp forehead against Kylo’s chest. “Can you rub my back a moment?”

“Of course,” Kylo says gently, and he reaches over, rubs Armitage’s sweat-slick back. He can feel Armitage’s muscles quivering underneath his hand, can feel the quick pant of Armitage’s breath as it slowly starts to settle out into something more regular. He doesn’t know what just happened, but it feels—significant, somehow.

“Alright,” Armitage says after a few minutes. “I can—I can take the dildos now. This is, uh. This is probably the final stretch of it for me.” He tips his head up to Kylo and kisses his lips, and then looks down at Kylo’s dick. “You should—consider what you want to do with that.”

“Whatever you want,” Kylo says honestly. “I’ve come once.”

“Oh,” Armitage says. “Once doesn’t have to be enough for you, not unless you want it to be.”

“… okay, maybe,” Kylo says. “I’ll consider it. You said—you said you usually fuck yourself with the dildos now?”

“Yeah,” Armitage says. “The smaller one first, then the larger one.”

“Maybe,” Kylo says. “Maybe I’ll …” He considers, for a moment, whether he wants to be the one wielding the dildo—but he doesn’t really fully understand how it would work, or how it would be good for Armitage, is concerned about going in too deep or too hard, going in at the wrong angle or missing the mark completely, jabbing Armitage in the balls or something. “Maybe I’ll watch you?”

“That sounds lovely,” Armitage says. He’s still staring at Kylo’s cock, reaches out a tentative hand to drag his fingers along it.

“Ugh,” Kylo says looking down. “There’s, like. Dried come flaking off.”

Armitage chuckles. “Tell your cocksucker to do better next time, yeah?” He digs around underneath himself until he finds the lube again, pours some into his palm.

Kylo reaches behind himself and hands over the pink dildo. “I dunno,” he says. “I thought my cocksucker did an amazing job.”

He’s rewarded with a blush.

“Thank you,” Armitage says softly. He runs his lubed fingers up the length of the dildo, and then uses one hand to hold himself open and the other to push the dildo into him. He’s lying on his side, so Kylo can’t see the insertion in as much detail as the plug—but it doesn’t matter, because Armitage is panting lightly and swallowing hard, Armitage is bringing his hand to his naked cock and stroking it gently.

Armitage is thrusting the dildo into his ass, breathing in time with his thrusts.

“That’s beautiful,” Kylo breathes. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” His hand goes to his own dick, and he slowly strokes himself. He can’t get enough of watching Armitage—watching the way that the dildo disappears into Armitage’s ass, the way Armitage’s hand grips the handle of the dildo, the way Armitage writhes on the bed as he fucks himself, and Kylo gets to—Kylo gets to _watch_ this, Kylo gets to see the entire thing.

“Fuck,” Armitage says, his hand working steadily between his legs. “I can’t believe you’re here, Kylo. I’ve thought about this so much. Fuck, you make me hard.”

“Can I, uh,” Kylo says. His voice keeps shaking. “Can I put my hand over yours?”

Armitage slows, looks up at Kylo. “Your…hand over mine?”

“I don’t get how it works,” Kylo says. He lets go of his own cock, wipes his hand on the sheets. “I want to—I want to do this to you, sometime. Later. But I don’t get how it works, can I just—put my hand over your hand?”

Armitage blinks. “Uh. Yeah, you can—yeah.” He rolls over onto his back, reaches for Kylo’s hand.

The end of the dildo is just—sticking out of his ass, and Kylo can’t stop staring at it.

(The rest of the dildo is _inside Armitage_ , and Kylo—and Kylo wants to be inside Armitage too, but he’s fucking terrified.)

“Here,” Armitage says. “Come sit between my legs, Kylo.”

Kylo moves as he’s asked.

Armitage grabs onto the end of the dildo, uses his other hand to put Kylo’s over his. “Your hand is massive,” Armitage says. “It’s fantastic. Here, just grab on like this. Look—see, I can tip it up, or tip it down, but you just—you just want to go slow with it for now, until you get used to it, okay? If you’re going to tip it any direction, go slightly like this because—ah, _fuck_ , _Kylo!_ —that’s.” Armitage stops talking for a moment, just breathes heavily. “So we’ll have another lesson about the prostate later, but that’s where mine is. Here, yeah, just—just—yeah, just thrust into me, like that.”

“Holy shit,” Kylo breathes. He’s not doing anything—just keeping his hand wrapped around Armitage’s. Armitage is the one who’s doing all the work, making all the movements—but Kylo can feel it, and it suddenly makes sense—it doesn’t just make sense, it seems far _easier_ than he thought it was going to be. “Armitage, holy fuck.” Kylo’s other hand is on his cock, and he’s stroking himself in time with Armitage’s movements, and it’s so fucking overwhelming in the absolute best way.

(He’s not scared at all, not anymore.)

“Yes,” Armitage says, staring at Kylo’s hand on his dick. “Touch yourself for me, let me see you.” He starts moving the dildo faster, arching up into his own grip. The angle looks awkward, uncomfortable, but he seems to be making out well with it.

Kylo lets go of Armitage’s hand and leans forward into him, kisses his lips, his forehead, his cheek. Moves down a little further, kisses across Armitage’s chest, sucks one of Armitage’s nipples into his mouth and flicks it with his tongue.

Armitage’s gasps get higher and higher pitched, his hips pushing up into Kylo irregularly before he suddenly arches back, dissolves into a string of profanity. “Angle—fucking thing slipped out—”

“What do I—”

“The other dildo,” Armitage gasps, his arm thrown over his eyes and the other hand groping around in the sheets. “Put it in me, Kylo, put it in me—”

The sheets are thrown everywhere. The dildo that had slipped out of Armitage has already fallen onto the floor, and Kylo doesn’t see the other one anywhere, and Armitage is just so—so needy right now, panting and twitching, arched backward off the bed.

Kylo doesn’t even think about it, just lifts his hand and spits on it, then slides it from Armitage’s hip down between his legs. Armitage’s hole is right there, loose and open and covered with lube, and Kylo slides two of his fingers inside.

“Kylo, holy fuck,” Armitage says. “ _Kylo_. Curl your fingers, curl your fucking fingers—”

Kylo does as he’s bid, curling his fingers up toward Armitage’s dick, and Armitage claps a hand over his mouth, screams into his palm. Kylo can’t get over how fucking _hot_ it is inside Armitage’s body, how tight he is inside, how it feels to be actually _inside Armitage_. There’s sparks going off in his head and he thinks maybe he’s whining, only because he can hear somebody whining, and it has to be him, because Armitage has his teeth sunk into his own hand so it can’t be Armitage, it’s gotta be him, and Kylo can’t touch his own dick hard enough or fast enough for how badly he needs to get off.

“Armitage, Armitage, I need—I can’t wait, I—”

“My face,” Armitage gasps. “Aim for my face. I want to come after you’ve made a mess of my face, Kylo—Kylo, make a mess of me, _please_ —”

Kylo doesn’t want to take his fingers out of Armitage—but it turns out he doesn’t have a choice in the matter, because Armitage screams into his hand again, thrusts his hips, and his ass _clenches_ , forces Kylo’s fingers right out. Kylo scrambles up the bed as Armitage pushes himself down, slapping his lube-wet hand against the wall above the bed, other hand flying over his cock as he points his dick at Armitage’s face.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Kylo curses, hand tightening on his dick as he finally starts to come, painting Armitage’s face with streaks of white. He lets go of his cock before he’s completely finished, reaches down again and takes Armitage’s cock in his hand. “Tell me if you want me to get you off,” Kylo gasps, doing his best to keep his grip on Armitage’s cock loose even though he wants nothing more than to squeeze tightly, especially considering that Armitage’s cock is slippery with the remnants of Kylo’s come that are still on his own hand.

“Do it,” Armitage moans. One of his hands reaches up and grabs Kylo’s wrist, and the other is reaching back behind himself. Armitage’s eyelids flutter, and his eyes roll back in his head. “Fuck,” he pants. “You’ve got me so open, I’ve got three fingers in myself and all I can taste is you—”

Kylo tightens his hand on Armitage’s cock, strokes him hard and fast. “Come for me,” he says breathlessly, and Armitage arches up into him, contorting and gasping, hand spasming on Kylo’s wrist and cock twitching in Kylo’s hand as he finally, gloriously, comes all across his own stomach.

“Oh my god,” Kylo murmurs, dragging his hand through the mess. Armitage’s skin is warm, his belly soft, and Kylo is going to kiss him, right on his bellybutton, right where Armitage’s come has pooled, he’s going to taste Armitage’s come for the first—

—above him, Armitage twitches and whimpers, writhing slightly and panting—no, not panting—

“Hey,” Kylo says softly, shifting up to the top of the bed, all thoughts of licking Armitage’s stomach forgotten. “Hey, hey.” He gathers Armitage into his arms, pulls him close, throwing his leg overtop of Armitage’s own. “Hey, Armitage. Hey.”

“I’m okay,” Armitage gasps. “I’m okay, it’s just—I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.”

“You’re okay,” Kylo says, petting the back of Armitage’s hair. “You did so well, that was—that was amazing, Armitage, I can’t believe—wow.”

“You really th-think so?” Armitage asks. His voice is shaky and wavering.

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “That was—that was life-changing for me.” He can’t put any of it into words—he keeps looking at his hand, at the two fingers that he had pressed into Armitage’s body, and it’s like every single moment in his life that he’s ever spent wanting Armitage has been exactly for this moment—and yet he was completely unprepared for the intimacy of it, the way he feels right now, like he’s not even a separate person from Armitage, and they’re just sharing the exact same space in two different bodies.

“Me too,” Armitage says into his chest. “Don’t stop holding me, okay? I need to be close to you right now.”

“Of course,” Kylo says softly, and he ducks his head, kisses the salt off Armitage’s cheek.

 

(Later, Kylo runs Armitage a bath, fills it with bubbles. He sits on the edge of the tub and sticks his feet in the water, nudging them in between Armitage’s legs. He wets a facecloth and carefully cleans the come off Armitage’s face, and Armitage closes his eyes and lets Kylo work at his own pace, sighing happily and nipping at Kylo’s fingers whenever they get anywhere near his lips.

(Later, they order pizza and eat it on the bed, trade a beer back and forth and lick cheese off each other’s fingers.

(Later, Kylo hoists Armitage onto his back and piggybacks him to the kitchen, carefully writes _12\. Intercourse, Armitage bottoming_ on the list. Armitage wriggles against his back, buries his face in Kylo’s shoulder. His cheek is so warm against Kylo’s skin that Kylo doesn’t need to look to know that Armitage is blushing.)

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. We're getting close to the end now, friends.
> 
> We're getting close to the end.
> 
> (Armitage's texting mannerisms are slipping rather significantly. Hmmm.)
> 
> Feel free to come yell at me on twitter or tumblr, or on my blog! [(This week's blog post contains a bonus discussion of how Armitage and Phasma met.)](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/07/11/dtd-chapter-seventeen-breakdown/)
> 
> If you want to see me blog about a thing that I haven't blogged about yet, you should ask me! I would blog about it for you.


	18. one day i'll fly away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would have been easier if Kylo hadn't said it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> As always, my thanks go out to deadsy, for her beta work, and valda, for her copyedits.
> 
> There's a couple of small chapter notes I just wanted to toss out there in advance for this one:  
> \- there's a term of endearment in a flashback that looks like it's pet play, but isn't  
> \- Poe shows up in this chapter, and if you're not sure how you feel about that, maybe take a quick scroll to the endnotes for some context
> 
> EDIT TO BE MORE SPECIFIC (Jul17): Hey all, just wanted to give a heads-up here--I've updated the tags for the work indicating a light/consensual foray into BDSM activities. Those BDSM activities happen in this chapter, and the activity in question in rope bondage. Please check the end notes for more specifics.

Kylo is a pretentious tit about his penmanship, and it is physically hurting Armitage to be confronted with _12\. Intercourse, Armitage bottoming_ every morning when he goes to the kitchen to drink tea, because it means every morning is exactly like _this_ —

Armitage, standing barefoot in the kitchen, cradling tea to his chest. Kylo, flopped out on his back, snoring, with his arm stretched out across on Armitage’s pillow. The list, matter-of-factly stating that _intercourse, Armitage bottoming_ is something that Kylo wants to do. Kylo, who’d never even kissed anyone until Armitage. Kylo, who watches him intently any time he does anything just so he can learn. Kylo, who’d waited until the middle of sex to blurt out—to—

(Armitage had tried, earlier, crossing out the items they had already done, but he’d turned around when he was halfway to campus and snuck back into the apartment to erase his pencil marks before Kylo woke up. He doesn’t want Kylo to feel like they can’t go back to things they’ve already done. He doesn’t want Kylo to feel like any of these things are one time only.)

  1. _Intercourse, Armitage bottoming._



It’s green ink, like the rest of the list. Armitage had completely fallen apart in front of Kylo, and Kylo somehow hadn’t minded, and fucking hell, Armitage has made a lot of mistakes in his life, but this is definitely one of the worst, because Kylo just doesn’t _get_ it, and Armitage doesn’t want to explain it to him—

He brings his mug to his lips, takes a long sip of tea. Closes his eyes for a moment, and then opens them again.

The list doesn’t change.

He’s not even sure he wants it to.

 

_Phasma: what in hell did you do to that boy_

_Phasma: I’ve never seen anyone work that hard in personal training before_

_Phasma: like, he always works hard_

_Phasma: but the last couple sessions_

_Phasma: did you promise him something_

_Armitage: I really don’t want to talk about it._

_Phasma: did you promise him your ass_

_Armitage: I said I don’t want to talk about it._

_Phasma: you did, holy shit_

_Phasma: did you tell him that you love him_

_Armitage: I did no such thing._

_Armitage: Fuck off, Phasma._

_Armitage: Honestly._

_Phasma: hux_

_Armitage: No._

_Phasma: hux u have to tell him_

“So,” Kylo says casually. “How do you make sure your dick doesn’t fall out?”

Armitage’s fingers twitch on his mouse, and _Starkiller 2.0_ jerks awkwardly, spinning along its z-axis in the wireframe currently showing on his laptop screen. He takes a deep breath, forces the irritation out of his voice. “Of what, Kylo?”

“Those underwear. Your pan—”

“If you say _panties_ ,” Armitage says, “I am ending this conversation right now, and we won’t be having it again in the future.” He adjusts his glasses, and rotates the 3D model of _Starkiller 2.0_ back where it’s supposed to be. Tries to recentre himself, get back to where he’d been before Kylo had ruined his concentration by asking stupid questions. “Please think very carefully about your language.”

Silence for a few glorious moments, while Armitage debates whether to rotate _Starkiller 2.0_ so that the head faces down, or whether it’s better with the head facing out. Either way, the final beams of light will be coming straight out of the eyes, so maybe it would be better if the beam of light cut straight across the gallery, highlighting—whatever the fuck he’ll hang on the wall at the end of it.

“The sizing of this underwear,” Kylo says carefully, “does not appear to account for the size of one’s dick flaccid, much less hard, and I was wondering if there was some secret to ordering fancy underwear that I was not otherwise aware of, as I did not know it existed until the other week.”

Armitage glances over at him, and the little shit ruins it by winking at him. _Fuck_. “Let me see.” He waits until Kylo tips his laptop toward Armitage, and then doesn’t even bother to stifle a derisive snort. “That’s why the keyword isn’t _panties_ , Kylo. You’ll note the complete lack of penises on the models.”

“I thought—”

“You were wrong,” Armitage says briskly. “I’m going to send you some links, and you can peruse them to your heart’s content, although if you’re going to masturbate, I’d prefer you did it in the bathroom so that you don’t jostle my hand while I’m working.”

“No, I wasn’t—I was—never mind.”

Armitage looks over at Kylo again, arches his eyebrow. “I’m a medium, typically,” he says, and Kylo’s ears pinken just a little. And then, because Armitage can’t let it lie even when everything about this is a terrible idea, he continues talking. “You, on the other hand, between the bulge and what Phasma’s doing to your arse, are probably a large.”

“Thanks,” Kylo mumbles, ears bright red now.

Armitage smirks and turns back to his computer, where he’s trying to figure out how the fuck he’s going to suspend _Starkiller 2.0._ All the techniques that he usually uses on cars and the like are completely wrong when he’s suspending a replica of a person. The aesthetic of thick steel cables and hooks is just— _bad_. He sighs, lifts up his laptop and pulls his legs up so that he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, puts the laptop back down.

“What’s Phasma doing to my ass?” Kylo asks quietly.

Armitage reaches over blindly, wriggles his hand down the back of Kylo’s pants and squeezes his ass cheek. There’s way more flesh there than what there had been before, and now he can’t even get half of Kylo’s ass cheek in his hand. (Kylo’s hand absolutely eclipses Armitage’s ass, though.) “Have you looked at yourself in yoga pants lately? Your ass is magnificent.”

“I just do what she tells me to,” Kylo says, but he sounds pleased.

Armitage pats Kylo’s ass, and then retracts his hand reluctantly. “You should let me give you a massage after your next workout. I bet you’d like it.”

“Mmm, I would,” Kylo says. There’s a faint click as he shuts his laptop, and then he rustles around on the bed until he’s lying down, head cradled in Armitage’s lap. “Wanna walk me through what you’re doing on Starkiller?”

“I thought you were shopping for underwear.”

“I was _looking_ at underwear,” Kylo says. “But I’d rather hang out with you right now.” He shifts around a little, burrows his hands underneath Armitage’s legs and touches the soles of his feet, dragging his thumbs across Armitage’s arches. “You’re not—holy hell, are you suspending it?”

“Yes, and no,” he says. “I prefer my projects suspended, but normally I just—put in some hooks and hoist them, and it seems wrong to do that with the sculpture of a person. Like, what am I gonna do—put a hook through your bellybutton and hoist you up like that?”

Kylo chuckles.

Armitage can feel the hot exhale of Kylo’s breath through his pants, and it’s exceedingly uncalled for. It means they’re going to end up fucking sooner, rather than later, because if Kylo keeps moving his head on Armitage’s lap, then Armitage is going to want to do something about it—or, at least, do something to Kylo about it.

“I guess it would be a little silly,” Kylo allows.

“A lot silly,” Armitage says. He brushes a strand of Kylo’s hair back from his face.

“…I might have an idea,” Kylo says.

Armitage bends over and kisses his forehead, rubs the wrinkle between Kylo’s eyebrows with his thumb. “Oh?”

“I need to check some stuff first, though,” Kylo says. “If you’re interested.”

He should turn this down. “Do what you want, and let me know if you find anything,” Armitage says. “But for right now—I’m going to set this to render. It’ll take about half an hour—would you like to come during that timeframe?”

Kylo’s face brightens. “Yes,” he says immediately. “Yes, of course.”

Armitage grins at him. “Once, or twice?”

 

(It takes longer than half an hour, but Kylo manages three times before collapsing back on the bed, closing his eyes. There’s a spattering of his own come on his chin, and Armitage’s throat feels pleasantly raw, his jaw sore. _Starkiller 2.0_ is long since rendered, and Armitage isn’t even mad about it—just satisfied and smug.

(“Are you sure you don’t want me to get you off?” Kylo asks, eyes still shut. He gropes around with his hands until he reaches Armitage’s thigh, squeezes him gently.

(“Yeah, I’m sure,” Armitage says softly, dick throbbing between his legs. “Fuck, you look good like this.”

(Kylo beams, displaying his crooked teeth.

(He looks even better this way.)

 

He doesn’t realize who Kylo is asking about _Starkiller_ until it’s already too late.

(He didn’t think Kylo even knew what went on at that warehouse, or what Kylo’s former boss—Armitage’s former _whatever_ —got up to on the weekends.)

He shouldn’t have said _yes_.

 

Armitage is in a sour mood when he arrives at work. It’s raining outside, and he’ll have to redo his hair in the horrific mirror in the staff bathroom before he starts his shift. He shoulders the door to the back open, starts unbuttoning his coat.

“I should hope,” Armitage says acidly, “that I won’t have to redo the books for head office _again_ this month.” He expects Poe to turn to him, immediately bite back a retort—but instead, Poe just swivels slowly in his office chair and _smirks_ up at Armitage.

“Armitage, nice of you to join us,” Poe says. “I was just having a chat with your future husband.”

Of course Kylo’s there, cheeks slightly flushed and shoulders rolled inward, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and Armitage wonders instantly what Poe has told him, what Poe gave away, how tarnished Armitage is now in Kylo’s eyes—

Armitage’s stomach twists. “Oh?” he says. It doesn’t come out lightly. He knows that, knows even before the words exit his mouth that they’re coming out sour and uncertain, petty and distant and tiny and small and—

“I hear you need some help with your thesis,” Poe says. “As it so happens, I have some…extracurricular skills that you might find useful. Now. You know. Seeing as they weren’t before, or, at least, you said that—”

“I get it,” Armitage says sharply. “I get it, there’s no need to elaborate.” He takes a deep breath, bites back a sigh. Of course this is what Kylo has done. Of course it is. “Thank you, Kylo. It’s—appreciated.”

“Should I not have—?” Kylo asks. His voice is small, and it wobbles a bit on the edges, and _fuck_ , it goes straight to Armitage’s chest and he _hates_ it. Things were so much easier when everything Kylo did went straight to his groin.

“It’s fine,” Armitage says shortly. “I’d forgotten that Poe has certain—”

“Skills,” Poe supplies helpfully. He waggles his fingers. “A very specific set of skills.”

“Yes, whatever,” Armitage says. He’s in it now, he might as well just make the best of it. “It’ll be helpful for my thesis, and it was kind of my—fiance to reach out to you.”

“This weekend,” Poe says, standing up from the office chair. “Yeah?”

The imitation of Armitage’s own speech pattern is enough to make him involuntarily grind his teeth, but he forces himself to smile. “Yeah.”

“See you then,” Poe says, casually touching Kylo’s arm, and then heading back out to the front, before looking over his shoulder. “Boot Kylo out the back, would you? Technically he’s not supposed to be back there when he’s not employed.”

“I’ll come back in the fall,” Kylo says.

Poe grins at him. “We’d appreciate that, wouldn’t we, Armitage?”

Armitage’s grin is stiff. There’s too many teeth. He inhales, exhales, inhales again, and waits for Poe to be gone.

He doesn’t want—he doesn’t want _this_. He’s not even sure what just happened, but he doesn’t want it. He wants nothing to do with it. Except that Kylo has—Kylo has reached out to Poe for _him_ , and nobody does that. Nobody ever does things for Armitage’s behalf, except now Kylo has just done—this.

“Okay, though,” Kylo says once they’re alone in the back room. “I definitely misread something there.”

“It’s fine,” Armitage says. “You couldn’t have known. About the history.”

“I mean, I knew you had a thing, once. I just—I thought it’d be okay since—I thought you were on good terms?”

Armitage takes a breath to snap back at him—and then Kylo’s hand is on his arm, and Kylo’s forehead is against his, and he can feel the warmth of Kylo’s breath on his face, and Armitage just—relaxes into it. “It ended—awkwardly,” Armitage says softly. “Started out really promising. Ended really badly. We never talked it out, we just—quit. Everything.”

“Oh, fuck,” Kylo says immediately. “I knew he—on the weekends, and I thought—I didn’t know—I’m gonna go cancel, like, right now.”

“Hey,” Armitage says, putting his hands on Kylo’s upper arms to stop him from going. “Are you okay with doing it?” He swallows, and then says what he wants, even though if he’s misinterpreted what Kylo is offering, it’s going to be a nightmare.

(Maybe they’ll break up over it. It would make things easier.)

“You’re okay with Poe suspending you?” Armitage asks.

Kylo doesn’t even flinch. “Well, you’re not, so—”

Armitage tightens his grip. “Kylo. Are you okay with doing it?”

“It’s for your thesis,” Kylo says stubbornly. “Yeah, I’m—I mean, I was—yeah, it’s okay. I don’t mind. I want to help. And I think this is gonna help. It’ll make it more—aesthetic. Less like sticking a hook in my bellybutton, you know?”

Armitage pats Kylo’s biceps, then leans forward and kisses him. He feels nauseous. “Okay. We’ll do it then.”

“For your thesis,” Kylo says.

“For my thesis,” Armitage agrees.

(He can’t think about rope. Not now. Not when Kylo is watching him.)

 

“Watch this,” Armitage says later that night, and he relaxes his throat, swallows Kylo’s dick back down to the base, his nose rubbing against Kylo’s pubes.

Kylo pants and moans above him, palm moving irregularly on the back of Armitage’s head. His hips twitch but he doesn’t thrust upward, just gasps and babbles something incoherent.

Armitage reaches back behind Kylo’s balls, applies external pressure to his perineum, and Kylo writhes above him, flopping back on the bed and moving his hands to cover his face.

“Gonna come,” Kylo mutters. “Can’t—shit, Armitage, I can’t—wow, how are— _fuck_ , fuck fuck fuck—”

Armitage swallows hard around him, and then pulls back and jacks Kylo off onto his face, looking up at Kylo the entire time, even though Kylo still has his own face covered. Kylo comes hard, spurting over Armitage’s face, thick gobs of come drooling down his cheekbones. When Kylo is finished, Armitage leans forward and gently cleans off his dick with his tongue, and then kisses Kylo’s hip. Licks his lips, swipes his fingers across his cheek to catch Kylo’s come and suck that into his mouth too. He closes his eyes, gently wipes his fingers across his eyelids, and then his eyebrows. Kylo’s come isn’t as bitter as he’d expected, and he makes a mental note that he should tell Phasma he appreciates the fruit content of the diet plan she has Kylo on—but he’s not going to suggest that right out of the middle of nowhere. He’ll save it for the next time she’s pissed at him over something.

When he opens his eyes, Kylo is staring at him.

“What?”

“You look—” Kylo says, and his voice cracks, gives out. He swallows, tries again. “You look gorgeous like that, I didn’t know—I didn’t know I would like it, the whole—face thing. My come, on your face.” His face is bright red. “I thought it was kind of—I dunno.”

“Disrespectful?” Armitage asks. “That’s the usual aversion to it.”

“Gross,” Kylo says. “I mean, I freaked out the first time I came all over my hands, I didn’t have enough kleenex or anything, and I had to use a sock to clean up, it was fucking disgusting.”

Armitage snorts a little, licks his fingers off. “I mean, it’s gross if you let it sit too long, but it’s not bad if it’s fresh. You know, get it before it’s congealed.”

Kylo makes a face.

Armitage reaches down to adjust himself through his pants, sits back on his heels while he contemplates what to do. He’s reasonably turned on right now, but he doesn’t know if he wants to get off now, or if he wants to wait until later.

“Can I?” Kylo asks.

“Can you what?” Armitage says absently, touching his erection through his pants. He works in a few hours, so he wouldn’t have much time to get off, especially if he wants to have a bath before work, which he definitely does—

“With my mouth,” Kylo says. “Uh. Suck you off?”

Now he has Armitage’s full attention.

“You want to?” Armitage asks. (He sounds fucking stupid as he asks it, and he’s going to blame the sex, he’s going to blame the sex and Kylo, and the part where he can still taste Kylo in his mouth, and feel bits of Kylo drying on his face. He’s not normally this fucking stupid. It’s Kylo’s fault.)

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “I mean, it’s on the list. Of course I want to.” He sits up, looks down at Armitage. “And, I mean. You look.”

Armitage can feel his face heating up. “Yes, I’m hard. I like giving head.”

“Maybe I’ll like it too,” Kylo says. “You should—could you let me?”

Armitage should say no. He should say no, because they should actually plan to do this, because they should be organized and Armitage should have something in mind for how he’s going to teach Kylo, he should have a plan, maybe they should watch some videos in advance—or, at the very least, Armitage should talk Kylo through the technique that he uses on Kylo, just to make sure Kylo is good, just to make sure Kylo is aware, just to make sure—

“Fuck it,” Armitage says. “Fine. You can—yeah.” He stands up from the floor and undoes his pants, shimmies them off his hips and lets them fall, and then crawls up on the bed next to Kylo. “Make out a bit first?”

“Fuck yeah,” Kylo says. “Fuck yeah, Armitage.”

And oh, fuck. Armitage is going to miss this when it’s all over, is going to miss Kylo’s big nose pressed up against his cheek, the way that Kylo is just a little too enthusiastic with his tongue. He can feel it twist in his heart, how much he’s going to miss this after, and he regrets that he ever lied to Kylo, regrets that he’d started things off on such a shitty footing, because they can’t recover from that, they can never recover from this, they can never—

Kylo’s hand is in his underwear, his long thick fingers wrapped around Armitage’s cock, and Armitage thrusts up into him involuntarily, because it feels really fucking good to have Kylo there, feels even better when Kylo moves his mouth down from Armitage’s lips to his neck, and then further down to his nipples, hand still working at his cock, and maybe…Armitage isn’t gonna draw this out, but it’s probably still gonna be a pretty decent orgasm because for some reason, he’s growing really fond of the fucking idiot currently mouthing at his bellybutton, as though it’s expected to be flattering that Kylo has his face buried in the softest part of Armitage’s body, as though that’s supposed to be attractive somehow—

—and then Kylo is tugging Armitage’s underwear down his hips, and staring down at his dick.

“Go easy on it,” Armitage says.

Kylo nods, keeps looking at it.

“Start shallow,” Armitage advises. “Don’t get too over-enthusiastic—oh, _Kylo_ —”

Because of course, Kylo has just opened his mouth and stuck Armitage’s dick in it, and he’s sucking and actually moving his tongue, which is rare for newbies, and holy hell—

“Did I get the tongue thing right?” Kylo asks, coming up for air. “Is the tongue okay?”

“The tongue is fine,” Armitage says, and his voice comes out mostly normal even though his pulse feels all fluttery. “Watch your breathing when you’re doing it—you don’t want to choke yourself.”

“You always go all the way to the bottom,” Kylo says, pouting in a way that Armitage definitely should not find attractive, he should definitely not be attracted to the way Kylo’s lower lip sticks out, he is so, so _fucked_ over this—

“I told you, that’s deep-throating, and it’s an advanced technique,” Armitage says, and if his voice is a little unsteady, then he can hardly be blamed for it, because Kylo is just so—

“I bet I can do it,” Kylo mutters, and then the arsehole actually bends over and does it, opens his mouth and swallows Armitage’s cock back until his fucking nose is pressed right against the red-gold shadow of Armitage’s pubic hair, and Armitage is writhing and pushing up against him and Kylo doesn’t even have the decency to gag—

“You fucker,” Armitage breathes when Kylo pulls back. His breathing is all irregular and his hands are shaking, and he’s so turned on he wants to put Kylo’s mouth right back down on his dick, exactly where it belongs. “It took me fucking years to be able to do that.”

Kylo grins at him, lopsided, and then wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “Maybe I’m just, like, naturally good at it?”

Armitage rolls his eyes, gestures to his erect cock. “Well, let’s see if you can do it a second time, yeah?”

Kylo does, is the thing. Armitage breathes deep, tries not to twitch his hips, tries not to react, tries not to—

“Can you pull my hair?” Kylo asks when he resurfaces, after he’s done gasping. His eyes are blown all to hell, and there’s drool on his lower lip. “I just—I think I’d really like it if you pulled my hair for this.”

“Yeah,” Armitage says hoarsely. “Yeah, I can—yeah.”

He’s fucked. He’s fucked.

He’s so fucked.

He pulls Kylo’s hair and thrusts up into his mouth, and Kylo gags around his cock, finally—and then goes right back down on it, pressing his nose up against Armitage’s skin and reaching his hands around to cup Armitage’s bare arse in his hands, and this is unjust, the entire thing, because Armitage used to have to swallow back bile when he tried to deep-throat people, and he’s only been able to deep-throat someone Kylo’s size through years of practice, and Kylo just—Kylo just _does_ it, and he does it for _Armitage_ and Armitage is getting this right now—the first blowjob Kylo has ever given—and Armitage is going to get off on it, he’s going to get off on Kylo’s mouth, tight on his cock, teeth scraping his shaft, on Kylo’s hands, groping at his arse—

Armitage winds his hands a little deeper into Kylo’s hair, pulls hard. Kylo swallows, hard, snaking one of his hands out from under Armitage and putting it back between his own legs, because of course he’s hard again, of course he’s fucking hard—

“Fuck you,” Armitage hisses.

Kylo whines, and sucks harder.

Armitage pulls his hair again, and Kylo moans. “I can’t fucking believe you, I can’t—you fecking _arsehole,_ I can’t believe you—fuck, you’re going to make me come.”

Kylo’s eyes flicker up to meet Armitage’s. They’re still blown completely to shit, and there’s moisture at the corners, a track of a single tear that’s escaped down his cheek. He’s got Armitage’s cock right down his throat, those perfect fucking lips just stretched around it, and he’s looking up at Armitage with his eyes all fucking _soft_ , and the last time they’d fucked, Kylo had gone and blurted out that he _loved_ Armitage, as though that matters, as though that changes anything, as though that corrects the fact that absolutely everything they’re doing is based on a lie—

“You’re perfect,” Armitage breathes, not knowing fully why the fuck he’s even saying it. “Kylo. You’re everything.”

The tear that was suspended at the corner of Kylo’s eye actually falls and Armitage reaches up, brushes it away with his thumb, experimentally tilts his hips.

Kylo swallows around his cock, pulls up and takes a deep gasping breath. There’s drool all over his mouth and his chin, and his nose is running.

“I’m going to—I’d like to—thrust into your mouth,” Armitage says, tightening his fists in Kylo’s hair. “Is that okay?”

Kylo nods as much as he’s able to, brings his hand up and pats Armitage’s thigh before moving his tongue against the underside of Armitage’s cock, and Armitage—fuck it, Armitage pulls Kylo’s hair, and thrusts up into his mouth, into the hot tightness of his throat, and it feels fucking good, it feels amazing, and he lets himself come even though it’s been a short buildup, even though this isn’t drawn out the way he prefers it—fuck, there’s something about having Kylo’s mouth on his cock, there’s something about _Kylo_ that just makes him willing to—he just—he just _likes_ Kylo, he likes Kylo so much, and it’s going to be fucking hell when this is over—

—and it’s over so fast, Armitage’s orgasm exploding sharp behind his eyes and his balls pulling up tight, and his cock pulses into Kylo’s mouth as a wave of bliss washes over him—

“You did so good,” Armitage breathes. The heels of his hands are pressed hard into his eyes, and he can’t even look at Kylo right now. “You did so good on my cock, Kylo. You did amazing.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and then opens his eyes.

Kylo pulls off, sucking on Armitage right to the end, but then looks up, his eyes slightly wild and his mouth clamped closed, hand flying up to cover it.

It takes Armitage a minute to realize what’s happening. “Just spit,” he advises. “In the sink, or in my hands.” He extends his two hands out, cupped together. “Just spit, Kylo. You don’t have to—okay, you swallowed.”

“Why is it so awful,” Kylo asks in a hoarse whisper. “What the fuck.”

“You get used to it,” Armitage says. “Here, baby. Come on over, I’ll pet your hair.”

Kylo flops next to him, writhes around for a moment. His hair is sweaty, and Armitage winds his fingers into it anyways, stroking and tugging at it until Kylo settles down, nuzzles against his bare thigh.

“You promise I’ll get used to it?” Kylo asks. “You’re used to it?”

“I promise,” Armitage says, because it’s true. “It’ll be fine.”

Kylo will get used to the taste of come.

Armitage shouldn’t let Kylo get used to it with _him_.

 

“You all good for the weekend?” Poe asks him at work.

“Hmm?” Armitage asks.

“The weekend,” Poe says, and when Armitage looks over, he’s leaning against the counter, hip cocked, that arrogant smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. “You know. For your _thesis_.”

“Yes,” Armitage says tightly, swallowing back all the complaining that he would normally do about an overly enthusiastic boyfriend, because the thing with Kylo is fake, and also because it’s none of Poe’s fucking business. “I’m ready.”

“You don’t seem as enthusiastic about this as I thought you’d be.”

Armitage sighs. “When was I ever enthusiastic about that warehouse you call a play space?”

“You were when we started,” Poe says pointedly. “Before you were ‘too good’ for it. Anyways, we’ve painted, since you were last there.”

“Black, I assume,” Armitage says. He swipes a wet rag across the counter again, even though it’s already clean because he just cleaned it. Fuck, he can’t wait for the fall semester to start up so that there’s actually something to do during the day rather than just shooting the shit with Poe.

“Well, yeah,” Poe says.

Armitage rolls his eyes.

“Hey,” Poe says a few minutes later. “Your boy.”

(Armitage suppresses a shudder.)

“Is he all good for the weekend? Does he know what to expect from this?”

“He knows to expect a perfectly platonic artistic demonstration wherein I take a lot of pictures, and nothing else happens,” Armitage says tartly.

“Ah,” Poe says. “You’re monogamous.”

“When have I ever been otherwise?” Armitage snaps. “You fucking _know_ that, don’t act like it’s a surprise.”

“Language,” Poe warns. “Anyway, people change. Has Kylo ever done anything like this before?”

“It won’t be a problem,” Armitage says, neatly side-stepping the question of Kylo’s experience. They both know it’s non-existent. “I’ll fill him in.”

 

He doesn’t, though.

It’s such a good teaching window, for—something. Anything.

There’s porn they could watch together and discuss. There’s photography that Armitage could show him. (Armitage’s entire modelling portfolio is on his laptop, and if it’s going to be relevant anytime, it’s now.) There are discussions they could have about expectations and proper conduct, things to say and things not to say. What’s normal, what isn’t. Armitage should probably talk about his past history with Poe, because whatever Kylo thinks he knows about it, there’s no way he has the right of it—

_Come here, little bunny. Look pretty for me, yeah?_

_I’m taller than you, flyboy._

It’s not like Armitage doesn’t have the opportunity to do it.

He just spends most of his time blowing Kylo, and letting Kylo blow him. Letting Kylo’s fingers drift down to his ass while they make out. Teaching Kylo how to give himself a manicure so that he can put his bare fingers inside Armitage, and every time Kylo does it and then proceeds to awkwardly try to seduce Armitage—as though thirty minutes of watching Kylo slowly file his nails hasn’t already got Armitage hard and aching—it kills Armitage a little bit more, because Kylo is that much more sure, that much more confident, that much more clever with those fucking thick fingers of his.

It’s late Friday night before Armitage finally remembers, and he can hardly talk because Kylo’s had his fingers inside him for an hour now, has gradually worked his way from two up to four, and is experimentally rubbing his thumb around Armitage’s rim as though he’s considering putting that in too, and honestly, Armitage would let him, Armitage would fucking let him.

(His entire body is aroused at this point—he can feel goosebumps on his exposed skin, and his head is spinning, and his cock is steadily drooling onto his own stomach, and Kylo is just so fucking _good_ to him.)

“We should talk,” Armitage says, his voice unsteady. “About tomorrow.”

“What about tomorrow?” Kylo says absently. He’s still staring down where his fingers have disappeared into Armitage, is gently twisting his hand back and forth, rubbing at Armitage’s rim with his thumb.

Armitage props himself back up on his elbows, enough to see that Kylo’s cock is starting to fill out again. It’s still wet from the blowjob Armitage gave him earlier, but not yet hard enough that the foreskin has pulled back from the head. There’s a small abrasion on Kylo’s shaft from the time when Kylo had jerked unexpectedly, and Armitage hadn’t been able to get his teeth out of the way in time. (Of course that was when Kylo had come, _of course_ it was.)

“We should talk,” Armitage repeats. “About what to expect. When he—when Poe ties you up.” It’s the first time he’s put it in words since that initial discussion, even though they both know that’s what Kylo was asking for when he chose to speak to Poe about it. They both know this is what Kylo meant, when he looked at the 3D rendering of _Starkiller 2.0_ and said that he knew a guy. Or, at least, Kylo knew what he meant—Armitage was slow to catch up, this time, and now the damage is done.

“Mmm,” Kylo says. He doesn’t flush or twitch, just takes the lube that he’s been warming in the palm of his other hand, and gently drizzles it down over Armitage. That done, he starts gently pushing, putting slow careful pressure on Armitage as he pushes ever so gently _against_ him, ever so gently _in_ —

“It won’t hurt,” Armitage says.

(Oh, hell, and what Kylo’s doing between his legs doesn’t hurt either—in fact, it feels fucking amazing, the way that he can feel his body yielding incrementally to Kylo’s fist.)

“It’s okay to react—however you’re going to react,” Armitage continues. “Some people get hard. Some people don’t. If you do, it might be weird for you since Poe will be there, but I’m not going to be upset about it, and Poe won’t be either.” He swallows, takes another breath—and just as he does, Kylo rotates his hand incrementally, and Hux can feel his thumb slip in. Armitage closes his eyes, takes a few more breaths. He’s so fucking _full_ right now, and it feels like Kylo has pushed Armitage’s ability to think clear out of his body, feels like there’s nothing more to the world other than Armitage’s body, and Kylo’s fist most of the way inside it. “I’ll keep that out of the pictures as much as possible.”

“Pictures?” Kylo asks.

Armitage opens his eyes. Kylo is staring at him intently.

“I was hoping to take—reference pictures,” Armitage says. Fuck, Kylo hasn’t moved his hand, is just applying steady pressure, and it’s so much, it’s so _much,_ he can feel himself stretching open, Kylo’s hand splitting him in half—

“ _Please_ ,” Kylo says heavily. “Please—yeah, I didn’t know you were gonna—take pictures of me, please.”

“I will,” Armitage says, his voice coming out tight and strangled. “For—for reference. Pictures of you—tied up—stop, Kylo, stop, stop—”

Kylo stops moving immediately, backs off on the pressure without removing his hand. “Do I need to—do I need to take this out?”

“No, no, it’s perfect just how it is—but no further.” Armitage is panting. He’s panting, and he can feel himself flushing, and he’s so close, he’s so—”Touch me?” he asks. “I want you to—to make me. I’ll—I’ll tell you no the entire time, but I want you to keep going.” His heart is pounding, and he can feel sweat on his lower back. “I want you to make me come.”

“What’re you actually gonna say if it’s no, though?” Kylo asks. “I don’t wanna—I don’t wanna fuck this up.”

Right. Safeword. Fuck.

“Pineapple,” Armitage says, bringing his hands up to his chest, and tugging at his nipples. “I’ll say—I’ll say pineapple, can you please—”

“I got you,” Kylo says, and he leans forward, takes Armitage’s cock in his hand. The palm of his hand is lube-slick and warm.

The first time he drags it down Armitage’s shaft, Armitage shudders, and cries out.

“You can’t get away from me,” Kylo murmurs. “I’ve got you right here, got you on my fist, and I’m going to keep you here, hold you here trapped—”

Armitage moans.

“—right on my fingers, right where I can touch you exactly like this—”

Kylo’s fingers twitch inside him, and then press hard against Armitage’s prostate just as Kylo’s grip tightens on his cock.

“—keep you here forever, make you come whenever I want, you can’t stop me, I’m just—I’m just here, doing stuff—holding you down—keeping you here—fuck, you’re hot—”

It’s not sexy, it shouldn’t be sexy, it shouldn’t be anything other than awkward, except Kylo’s hand is still on Armitage’s cock, and most of his fist is up Armitage’s ass, and Armitage pulls hard at his own nipples, tries to writhe against Kylo’s hand except that Kylo has him pinned down and held fast, splayed open and vulnerable and _wanting_.

“Here, let me,” Kylo says, and he leans a little further forward, and takes Armitage’s dick in his mouth, descends down it as fast as he can until his nose is against Armitage’s pubic stubble and Kylo—Kylo does something with his hand and Armitage’s orgasm is inevitable, all he can do is brace himself and let it break over him. He can feel his toes pointing, his legs going rigid and his back arching off the bed, and the stretch of Kylo’s fingers in his ass becomes an all-encompassing full body burn as he’s completely devoured by pleasure, by the feel of his cock in Kylo’s mouth, by the stretch in his ass and the pressure against his prostate, and he thinks he gasps Kylo’s name, but he doesn’t know for sure because everything whites out for a moment—

“It’s okay,” Kylo is murmuring to him. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay—shit, I just drooled come back on you, sorry, sorry—can you bear down on me for a second here?”

Armitage puts his hands over his face, heels of his palms over his eyes, shakes his head. His skin is so hot, and he feels feverish, feels like his limbs have all disintegrated, like he’s melted back into the bed.

“Come on,” Kylo says, his voice going a little high-pitched. “Can you just—bear down here?”

“I can’t,” Armitage says weakly. The stretch between his legs is so intense.

“Shit,” Kylo says. “I, uh.”

“More lube,” Armitage says faintly. “More lube on the edges, by your knuckles, and—”

“I can’t see my knuckles,” Kylo says, a little hysterically. “I didn’t—you moved when you were coming, I couldn’t—it’s just—”

Armitage reaches down between his legs, blinking back the involuntary tears—and, okay, maybe they aren’t completely involuntary tears, because Armitage has inadvertently pushed down on Kylo’s hand enough that his knuckles are mostly in as well, which means that the widest part of Kylo’s fist is the part that’s currently holding him open—

“Lube, Kylo,” Armitage says. He shudders a bit when Kylo actually does it, just dumps the lube on cold, lets it drizzle down his hand onto the towel underneath them. “Close your eyes if it’s freaking you out, okay?”

“I can’t—I can’t see my hand,” Kylo says. His eyes are wide.

“Look,” Armitage says. “I can feel your knuckle right there, it’s still outside, alright? Just—gently pull your thumb out, alright?”

Kylo slowly removes his thumb, wincing and staring between Armitage’s legs.

Armitage feels the release of pressure almost immediately, takes a couple deep breaths to centre himself. “There,” he says soothingly. “That’s much better. Here, if it’ll help—” And he brings both his hands down between his legs, frames Kylo’s fist with his fingers. “There. I’ve got pressure on myself. Nothing bad is going to happen, okay? You can just slowly pull your hand back, and everything’s going to be absolutely fine.”

Armitage exhales slowly as Kylo pulls his fingers out. His entire ass is sensitive, and he’s suddenly conscious of every air current in the room.

Kylo is stretching his lube-soaked hand out, looking relieved right until he looks down at Armitage, and suddenly stills.

“Your, uh…you didn’t…close up, is that—normal?” Kylo asks. He’s still staring between Armitage’s legs, brow furrowed.

“It’ll go away in a minute or two,” Armitage says soothingly. “It’s normal. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Okay,” Kylo says. He keeps staring.

Armitage sits up carefully, reaches over, and intertwines his fingers with Kylo’s.

“That’s my ass hand,” Kylo says, trying to pull his fingers away.

Armitage tightens his grip. “It’s my arse,” he says. “I know it’s clean.” He leans forward, kisses Kylo on the cheek. “There,” he says. “You did really well, okay? You didn’t panic, and that was really great.”

“I should have been paying more attention,” Kylo says.

“I rammed my arse down onto your hand when I came,” Armitage says. “Maybe you shouldn’t have given me that nice an orgasm.”

Kylo flushes. “It was good?”

“It was great,” Armitage says, smiling even though he’s trying to keep his face serious. “But if you’re feeling like a jerk, you could bring me a beer, and run me a bath, and then carry me over to it.”

“I can do that,” Kylo says. He gets up from the bed, and then hesitates. “You’re sure that’s—okay?”

Armitage rolls his eyes. “I’ll let you inspect me later tonight. You can confirm it’s all closed up and everything.”

(He’s not sure he’s ever seen Kylo quite that red before, but it’s really adorable.)

 

Kylo’s up before him on Saturday, and Armitage wakes up disoriented because of it. He’s used to Kylo snoring softly, or Kylo’s arm or leg thrown across Armitage’s body, but the other side of the bed is empty and already cold. Armitage pulls the blankets up around his shoulders. He’s cold, too, without Kylo’s body heat, even though he’s wearing his customary t-shirt and pyjama pants.

Millicent is in the kitchen, loudly crunching on cat food, so Kylo’s done that, at least—but if he’s already done that, why hasn’t he come back to bed? Where the hell are Armitage’s kisses?

“Hey,” Kylo says.

Armitage rolls over, grabs his glasses from his end table, and peers at Kylo a little sleepily. “You’re already up.”

“Yeah,” Kylo says. He has a towel tucked around his waist, and is rubbing another one through his hair. Freshly showered, then. “Big day today,” Kylo says. “Wanted to be sure I was ready.”

Armitage sits up. He doesn’t have any residual soreness from the previous night, just a bit of a pleasant ache, and the memory of how fucking nice it felt to have most of Kylo’s hand in him. His cock twitches a little at the thought, and he palms it without thinking too much about it, knowing his erection will go away as he showers—

There’s a soft thump, and then Kylo is on his knees in front of Armitage, nuzzling his head into the sheets that are still wrapped around Armitage’s legs, covering his lap.

Armitage reaches up to pet his hair. “Oh, you don’t have to, Kylo.”

“I want to,” Kylo murmurs into his legs. “Can I—can I get you off, and then, uh.” He makes a vague hand motion.

“You want to get yourself off?” Armitage asks.

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “Uh, if you don’t mind. Could I. On.”

Armitage smiles in spite of himself. “What part of me?”

Kylo mutters something unintelligible.

“Speak up,” Armitage says, a little sharply. He softens it by petting Kylo’s hair again. “Whatever you want, doll, but you need to use your words, okay?”

Kylo takes a deep breath. “You can say no.”

“I can always say no,” Armitage confirms. “Any one of us can say no at any point in time. To anything.”

Kylo looks up at him. “Can I … can I come on your ass?”

He ruins the intimacy of it immediately by squeezing his eyes shut, and looking away.

“Hey,” Armitage says. He tugs a little on Kylo’s hair to get him to make eye contact again. “Kylo.”

Kylo opens his eyes.

“I don’t want to get off right now,” Armitage says.

“Okay,” Kylo replies, disappointment obvious on his face.

Armitage moves the sheets out of the way. “But I’ll give you—fifteen minutes? Maybe twenty? And then I’ll get on the bed on all fours for you, and you can jack off onto my ass, alright, sweetheart?”

“Really?” Kylo asks.

“Really,” Armitage says, and it sounds like a promise even though he’s not supposed to be making those. Even though they’re on the final stretch of—whatever this is.

When Kylo’s mouth envelops his cock, Armitage shuts his eyes, tries to remember how to breathe. They’ll need to leave the house in an hour, which means he needs to keep his wits about him—but Kylo’s mouth feels fucking nice on his cock, and Armitage doesn’t want to think about Poe anyway, wants to focus on the heat of Kylo’s mouth and the tip of Kylo’s tongue flicking at the head of his cock.

(He gets carried away, like he always gets carried away—he’s most of the way there before he finally tells Kylo to stop, and it’s nearly impossible to stop himself from putting his hand on his cock when he rolls over onto all fours, and Kylo just—stares at him, licks his thumb and runs it down the crack of Armitage’s ass, pressing against his hole for a moment before the silence is broken by the tell-tale skin-slap sound of Kylo masturbating.

(Armitage touches his cock when Kylo comes, cursing, all over Armitage’s lower back. He’s not masturbating. He’s just gripping the base of his cock, willing himself to calm down.

(When he looks at the clock, he realizes they’re already late.)

 

They’re halfway into the forty-minute bus ride when Armitage realizes that Kylo has fucked up.

“I explicitly said yoga pants,” Armitage snaps. “Yoga pants, and a tight shirt.”

Kylo looks up at him. “Did you?”

“I did,” Armitage says curtly. “What the fuck is that?”

“It’s all I had,” Kylo says vaguely.

“It is not,” Armitage says, biting back the rest of what he wants to say by clamping his teeth down on his lower lip.

Kylo hasn’t even fucking _tried_ —he’s wearing loose baggy jeans with no belt, and a fucking sweater even though it’s August, and he’s going to sweat to death. But that’s fine. That’s none of Armitage’s business. They’re only going to his ex’s fucking “performance art” venue so that his ex can tie his fake boyfriend up and swing him around on a hook like it doesn’t bother Armitage, like it’s not going to eat him up inside when Kylo turns those soft brown eyes on Poe the same way everybody does the moment Poe gets out the rope. (The same way Armitage did—but that hadn’t worked out for him, now, had it?)

_The photos will be ruined_ , Armitage thinks—but he bites it back, because there’s nothing they can do about it now. He knows he’s glowering by the time the bus actually arrives, but he’s going to do his best to keep it in, he’s going to keep his mouth shut, he’s going to—

“What the heck is this place?” Kylo asks.

“It’s a fucking dungeon, Ren,” Armitage snaps. “Come on, we’re already late.”

Kylo’s eyes widen, but he picks up the pace to catch up with Armitage anyways. “Don’t call me Ren,” he says quietly. “And I just didn’t know it was, like, all industrial. I’m not stupid, I know it’s a dungeon. I know what Poe does. You should be nicer to me.”

“I’ll—okay,” Armitage says. “Fine. But don’t ask stupid questions, yeah? No, look—pretend I didn’t say that, just—this is going to be—fuck, I should have—”

“Hey,” Kylo says, catching Armitage’s arm with his big fucking hand, and squeezing him tight. “Hey, Armitage.” He tips his head down, touches his forehead against Armitage’s. “I love you, okay? This is gonna be fine. This is gonna be absolutely fine.”

Armitage takes a deep breath, exhales. He doesn’t know if he wants to sob or scream. He looks back at the bus stop, but the bus has long since left, and it’ll be an hour before the next one. In the end, he just reaches up and rubs the bottom of Kylo’s ear between his thumb and finger. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m—I’m trying.” Swallows. “Well, I wasn’t. But I will.”

“Thank you,” Kylo says. He reaches over, takes Armitage’s hand. “Come on, let’s go. It’s gonna be okay.”

 

It’s been years since Armitage was involved with Poe, and even longer than that since the last time he was in the warehouse, and fuck, Armitage forgot about all the goddamn _posturing_ that comes along with rigging. Poe’s music is audible the moment they enter the building. It’s Enigma, because of fucking course it is. Armitage sighs, leads Kylo through the hallways.

“It’s like a maze in here,” Kylo says.

_All roads lead to the play area_ , Armitage thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut.

The play area itself is larger than Armitage remembered—big double doors opening up into a wide space with high ceilings. There are spotlights mounted on the walls that usually point up to the massive chandelier, but today, they’re all focused on the single ring that’s hanging down from the ceiling, right in the centre of the play room.

“Glad you could make it,” Poe calls out. He’s standing next to a table that he’s dragged over by the ring, sorting through hanks of rope. He’s wearing combat boots and black cargo pants, and is shirtless except for some leather shoulder protector bullshit thing he probably got at a Ren Faire. “I’m almost ready.”

_We’re late_ , Armitage thinks, _you should have been ready fifteen minutes ago._ “Are utilikilts no longer in fashion?” he asks acidly.

“Wore it at the orgy last night,” Poe replies, grinning. “Still needs a wash.”

Armitage rolls his eyes, tightens his grip on Kylo’s hand. It’ll be fine. They’re just going to get this over with quickly. Kylo will transfer his affections over to Poe, Armitage won’t feel nearly as guilty about walking away from this, and—

“I love you,” Kylo whispers into Armitage’s ear. “I’m nervous as fuck, but I’m gonna do my best for you.”

Armitage bites his lip, squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to think. “Thank you, Kylo,” he says.

When he opens his eyes again, Kylo is smiling at him.

Armitage tries his best to hate it.

He can’t.

 

“Waiver just runs over the liability issues,” Poe is saying. “You basically just sign this off here, we keep it on file, and then it covers everything. Today’s photography is out of the ordinary, but as you can see, there’s nobody else here, so you’ve got as much privacy as you need. I’m assuming that Armitage has a separate contract for you with the photos?”

There isn’t a separate contract. Armitage hadn’t written one. He knows, he fucking _knows_ , and he just—didn’t, and now Kylo will—

“Yeah,” Kylo says absently, scanning through the document Poe has handed him, and absolutely not throwing Armitage under the bus even when he had a very good excuse to do so.

Armitage hasn’t been handed his own copy of the waiver—presumably, the one he’d signed years ago is still on file. Armitage hopes Kylo asks about it. End this now. End it before it even gets started. End it before he has to see Kylo bound and—

(He should have just invited Kylo to Bala-Tik’s like a normal person. No—he should have quit his shitty job working for his arrogant ex, and then quit his fucking bullshit thesis that he’s never going to finish, and moved away to a different city—and _then_ asked Kylo out, invited him for drinks, and then it would have been fine that it didn’t work out, because they were separated by distance anyway, because it would hurt less if Armitage didn’t already know everything about Kylo’s habits, if it wasn’t already going to be really difficult to avoid him.)

“Discretion is important,” Poe continues. “I’ll never repeat anything I see or hear here at work or anywhere else, and the same is expected from you and Armitage.”

“Of course,” Kylo says, signing his stupid elaborate signature on the bottom of the page.

Armitage hopes Kylo asks about Armitage’s waiver.

He’s disappointed when he doesn’t.

Kylo is staring around the room again. All the dungeon furniture and the play area setups are pushed back against the outside edges, the medical exam table shoved up against the stocks and the portable suspension rigs all stacked neatly off to one corner. Kylo’s finger and thumb are rubbing together at his side, and Armitage can see his shoulders creeping up around his ears.

“Eyes over here,” Armitage says. “I know it’s a lot.”

“I don’t know what I expected,” Kylo says.

“If you like it, you can come back here another time, alright?” Armitage swallows, hard, the moment that the words escape his mouth. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No, he doesn’t want to—he does, but he—oh, fuck, hell. “Today is thesis time.”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, turning back to Armitage and focusing. “Thesis time.”

“Hey,” Poe says. “Hux—catch!”

Armitage steps to the side, lets the safety scissors clatter to the floor.

“Really?” Poe asks.

“Really,” Armitage says, bending down to pick them up and then slip them into his back pocket. He takes a look at Poe’s belt, confirms that Poe’s rope knife is hung on his right hip, and there’s another pair of safety scissors hung on the back of his belt. The rest of his belt is loaded up with hanks of rope, and there’s more rope set aside by the ring.

There’s no crash pad on the floor. Armitage opens his mouth to complain—and then closes it again. He doesn’t want Kylo to worry. (He just wants to get this over with.) Instead, Armitage reaches into his messenger bag, ignoring the camera for now, and brings out the file folder of reference images that he’d printed out, both photos he’d taken of Kylo, and then photos of the mockup of the sculpture he’s created based on that. He looks at the reference images of Kylo, chewing on his bottom lip—and then puts them behind the photos of the sculpture. As much as he wants this to be over with and done—he wants to be protective of those original photos. Those are his, and he’s not going to ask Kylo to share them.

“Those the references?” Poe asks.

“Yes,” Armitage says shortly. He holds the folder open, lets Poe look at the photos. “It’s based off of—”

“Yoga, yeah,” Poe says. “But you want it rotated?”

“Yes.”

“You can show him the other photos if you want,” Kylo says softly.

“No, thank you,” Armitage says. He closes the folder, doesn’t look at Poe’s face. “We might as well get going.”

“Wait a sec,” Poe says. “Before we do that. Are there any, uh.” He gestures between Kylo and Armitage. “ _Dynamics_ that I need to be aware of here?”

And Kylo, the stupid fucking idiot, opens his mouth and says, “This is Armitage’s thing, he’s in charge. I’m just here to do what he wants.”

“Oh,” Poe says slyly. “It’s like that, huh? Lucky you. I’ll swap the music over, be right back.”

Armitage blinks. He can’t—he didn’t—there’s no way Kylo doesn’t know what he just said, except that Armitage looks over at him, and Kylo just looks like his usual self, handsome and gorgeous and slightly vapid, just because he’s staring at Armitage rather than paying attention to anything.

“You okay?” Kylo asks.

“Do you even understand the gravity of what you’ve just said?” Armitage asks him, quietly enough that Poe won’t hear.

Kylo frowns. “Did I say something weird?”

_Should have watched that fucking porn_ , Armitage thinks. They’ve been here less than ten minutes, and it’s already a fucking shitshow, because Armitage—Armitage doesn’t _want_ to give this up, even though he knows it’s better if he does. He should have given Kylo that crash course in BDSM etiquette. He should have sat him down and explained exactly what was going on.

(He should have said _no_ in the first place, he should have said _no_ an infinite number of times afterwards. He never should have let Kylo say _I love you_. He never should have started it this way.)

“Okay,” Poe says, swaggering back over. “I think we’ll get started with getting the harness on. I’m going to start with a couple of upright suspensions just to make sure nothing goes weird, there’s no unusual reactions to the rope, anything like that. Then we’ll switch over to the inversions, and you can get your photos.” He looks at Armitage. “You’ve talked to him about the more—sexual side effects?”

“Yeah,” Armitage says, like a liar—because he hasn’t, he hasn’t done it at all. He’s mentioned incidental hardons in passing, but never discussed the possibilities if Kylo goes into subspace, or gets an endorphin rush, or gets horny, or—or anything, and Armitage shouldn’t even be here right now, he should—he should have stayed home, just worked on the list with Kylo and withdrawn from university entirely because he’s never going to finish this fucking—

“Alright,” Poe says, already focusing all his attention on Kylo, flicking his eyes up and down Kylo’s body. “You’ve been working out since you quit, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” Kylo says, dragging his hand back through his hair. The engagement ring is ever-present, and it gets snagged in his hair every time, and he fucking won’t _quit_ that goddamn nervous habit, and it will drive Armitage to drink. “Armitage’s friend is my personal trainer, she’s been—yeah. I’m lucky to have her.”

“It suits you,” Poe says.

Kylo’s eyes flick over to Armitage, and Armitage looks down, opens his messenger bag and takes out his camera. Focuses on the rhythm of taking the camera out, taking off the lens cap, hanging it around his neck, adjusting the settings. All the things he needs to do to create some fucking _distance_ between himself and Kylo, because he is in physical _pain_ right now just from the closeness of it, from the intimacy of it, from knowing that everything about this is _wrong_ —

(Maybe if he just—keeps it professional between him and Kylo, if he just focuses on the artistic merit of the work, maybe that’ll keep his head straight. Maybe that’ll stop him from focusing on how fucking _vulnerable_ he feels right now, pinned between the intensity of Kylo’s affections on one side, and the absolute scorn he’ll receive from his ex on the other if Poe ever figures out that this entire thing is fake, has been fake the whole time. It’s the absolute truth, so why is Armitage so terrified that somebody—that Poe—is going to find out?)

“So the thing with rope,” Poe says, “is that it’s all about comfort. This is the stuff that I use—here, feel it. It’s fairly soft, it’ll feel good on your skin. I’ve got other stuff that’s meant to be itchy, for sensation play, but this is just a favour we’re doing for Hux’s thesis, so we’ll stick with making you as comfortable as possible. Nothing that we’re going to be doing today is going to hurt, so let me know immediately if it does. You shouldn’t experience any numbness or any loss of feeling or tingling in your limbs while we’re doing this—and, again, let me know if that’s not your experience. I’ll be checking your extremities for temperature changes, and I’ll be asking you questions as we go—but you can let me know at any time if something is weird, or if you feel like you can’t quite relax into it. Because we’re going to be doing inversions today, and because they’re based on yoga poses, I’m going to give you a few minutes to warm up here, alright? Just—stretch, go for a jog around the space, anything like that.”

Kylo nods, looks at Armitage again.

“Go ahead,” Armitage says. “I need a few minutes to get the camera ready here anyway, adjust the lights.”

Kylo ducks his head, looks up at Armitage from under his hair.

“It’s okay,” Armitage says. “Go.”

 

“Something wrong with my lights?” Poe asks.

With effort, Armitage pulls his attention away from Kylo—on his fourth lap now, running easily even though one hand is holding up his baggy jeans, even though he must be sweating to death in that fucking sweater. “Hmm?”

“My lights,” Poe repeats. He gestures at the ring, illuminated by the spotlights on the walls. “He’s new, and I’d only planned to hoist him a few feet off the floor. Do you need me to pull him higher?”

Armitage bites his lip, forces out the thought of Kylo, suspended ten feet in the air. “Closer is fine, considering that you’ve forgone all the safety equipment.”

“False sense of security,” Poe says blithely, leaning back against the table and crossing his arms over his bare chest as they both watch Kylo complete another lap around the play room. “You know it’ll make for better pictures if you don’t have to edit it out, and I’ll be sharper without it there.”

“Be careful with him,” Armitage says, and then immediately covers for it by bringing his camera up to his face, snapping a few pictures of the empty space.

“I brought the lights down enough that you shouldn’t have to edit out much of the other play equipment,” Poe says.

“Mmm,” Armitage says. He snaps a few more pictures, tries to pretend that he isn’t dying to touch Kylo. He touches his thumb to the underside of the ring on his left hand, tries to stabilize himself.

( _Fuck_ , he wishes Kylo had never said it. Things were so much less complicated before Kylo said it.)

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Poe says.

“Hmm?”

“What the _fuck_ , Armitage?”

Armitage looks up, immediately defensive. “I don’t know what—”

“He’s fucking gorgeous,” Poe says. “And absolutely devoted to you, how the fuck did you even manage that? You’re not exactly…”

“I’m not exactly what,” Armitage says acidly. And then, “You know what? Never mind, _Dameron_ , don’t answer that. You don’t want to know anyway, you’d accuse me of taking too long to explain.” He takes another photo of the space, blinks through the sudden ache in his contacts. “You didn’t have time for anything then, why would I think that you have time for anything now?” He frowns down at the viewscreen of his camera, walks over to the ring and calls out Kylo’s name, his voice echoing in the space.

Kylo’s head tips up immediately, and he turns where he is, jogs back to Armitage, stops in front of him and waits.

“You ready?” Armitage asks softly.

“Yeah,” Kylo says. He reaches out, tugs at the hem of Armitage’s shirt. “I’m gonna do good for you, Armitage. I promise.”

“I’m not worried,” Armitage says, and it’s true, and he hates it because it makes him a monster. It makes him a monster to have Kylo this devoted to him under the false pretence that is their relationship. It makes him a monster to bring Kylo here without giving him any of the information he needs to make ethical decisions about things. It makes him a monster to just—let Kylo submit to him like this, to let Poe think that this is more than what it is, to let Poe think that this is nothing less than Kylo’s complete and total submission to Armitage, when in actual fact it’s the other way around and Armitage is weak, small, absolutely _destroyed_ by Kylo Ren’s proximity to Armitage’s person—

“I can work around your clothes,” Poe is saying to Kylo. “Traditionally, this is done wearing less clothing, or something skintight, but I’m good at this and I’ll be able to work around it, no problem—”

“I’ll strip,” Kylo says.

Armitage looks up. _You don’t have to_ , is what he should say, but the words don’t make it anywhere close to his mouth. He doesn’t want to say them. He should say them. He should definitely say them. He can’t open his mouth.

“If it’s okay with Armitage,” Kylo continues.

Armitage wants to scream at him. _Don’t ask this of me, do you have any idea what you’re asking of me right now?_

“It’s okay,” Armitage says, once he’s confident in his voice. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, Kylo.”

“I’ll strip,” Kylo says again. His hands go his jeans, undo the button and unzip the zipper, letting them drop to the ground, leaving his sweater mostly covering—

And then Kylo grabs the back of his sweater and hauls it over his head, and it isn’t covering much of anything, and—

—and neither are the underwear that Kylo’s wearing.

Gone are the raggedy boxer shorts that Kylo usually wears, the ones that are missing at least one button with random threadbare sections and the occasional tear. These aren’t even—boxer briefs, or even briefs, or anything that Kylo could have walked into a store and purchased. These are—they’re mesh. Black mesh, like a wide fishnet pattern, skintight around Kylo’s thighs and across his ass. The fabric is solid in the front, but cut so tight and so thin that it doesn’t matter, because they’re hugging Kylo’s genitals anyway, embracing his dick and his balls and putting them on display for everyone to see. Kylo is impressive enough flaccid, but right now he’s half-hard, and Armitage feels it burning, low in his gut. He can _taste_ it in the back of his throat, the salt-sweat of Kylo’s cock, and way it lies heavy on his tongue and twitches into his mouth.

Poe whistles. Low, appreciative.

Armitage should turn away. He should turn away because this is supposed to be professional, this is supposed to be for his thesis, this is not supposed to be—oh, god, and the breadth and depth of Kylo’s devotion has gone straight to Armitage’s chest, clenching tightly around his heart. He can’t—he can’t do this, he can’t do this here, he can’t do this now—

He feels his face flattening over, automatically pulling into the half-sneer that Armitage Hux, professional artist, uses. The sneer that keeps everyone away, the sneer that makes people hate him and keeps people distant, except it didn’t work on Kylo when Armitage had hung a car from a bridge, and it sure as fuck isn’t working on Kylo now, because—

—because Kylo’s breathing has audibly picked up. His eyes are trained on Armitage’s mouth.

Armitage raises the camera to his eye, snaps a shot of Kylo standing there, just like that. Cock hanging, heavy and hot, in his fucking mesh underwear. Armitage wants to tear Kylo’s underwear off with his teeth, and he is alternately certain but then unsure—would Kylo let him? Would Kylo let Armitage strip him bare, right here?

(Armitage is wearing slacks and a button-up shirt with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows, and he might as well be naked right now, because it is excruciating to be this exposed.)

Poe turns to his rope bag for a moment, roots around until he finds something, and presses it into Armitage’s hand on his way over to the rig. “I’ll start with the chest harness,” he says to Kylo. “You can stay standing just like that.”

Armitage looks down at his hand, at a hank of thin, red rope.

He puts it in his pocket, and tries not to think about it.

 

Kylo is bound, and Armitage is internally screaming. His hand is cramped from holding his camera, his pants are uncomfortably tight, and he can’t breathe, he can’t fucking breathe. Kylo takes to the ropes like he was born to them, and for a moment, Armitage thought that was going to make things easier, was going to make it less intense, was going to let Armitage just focus on what he’s supposed to be doing, which is taking reference pictures and doing as much as he can to make sure that he gets something out of this that he can use for his thesis, even though he—he can’t concentrate, he can’t breathe, he can’t function.

Kylo is destroying him.

It would have been significantly easier, he thinks, if Kylo had reacted to Poe the same way everybody reacts to Poe. Armitage hasn’t seen anyone get suspended who didn’t fall at least a little in love with their rigger—god knows, it was the only reason he’d stayed with Poe any longer than a couple of quick fucks before moving on to someone else—but then, there’s Kylo. Kylo, who has not taken his eyes off Armitage since this entire thing started. Kylo, who hasn’t even looked at Poe any more than necessary—and even, when looking at Poe, manages to convey somehow that he is also looking _through_ Poe, as though he will be able to see Armitage standing behind him if he just keeps staring.

It’s too much.

Armitage wants to leave.

He can’t leave.

He’s in—

He can’t.

(Not with the way this started.)

Poe says something, and it’s white noise on the inside of Armitage’s brain.

Poe’s hand is on his arm. “Armitage,” Poe says, right next to his ear. “Are you alright?”

“You should be next to him, watching him,” Armitage says softly.

“He’s fine for a moment,” Poe says. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Armitage responds automatically.

“You know you can always—”

“Fine,” Armitage snaps.

“Armitage?” Kylo asks. His voice sounds—sex-drunk, blurry around the edges, and Armitage knows, now, how Kylo’s voice reverberates through his chest, how Armitage can put his ear directly on Kylo’s skin and hear the beating of his heart, let it soothe him like nothing else does.

“It’s fine,” Armitage says, softer this time. “Just discussing next steps with Poe. How are you feeling?”

“I’m ready for the inversions now,” Kylo says. “If you want.” He’s hanging horizontally face-down, arms tied behind his back, supported at the chest, hips, and thighs. There are additional ropes on his lower legs and feet. He looks fucking gorgeous.

(If Armitage thinks of him as an engineering project, it’s easier. He wishes he were capable of thinking of Kylo as an engineering project. He should have documented that from the start, given Kylo a start and an end date when he’d given him that fucking contract to sign, because everything has gone completely to shit now, everything is destroyed, he’s in too deep and he’s drowning, he’s going under, he’s—)

“So it’s a dynamic suspension,” Poe says, and he’s heading back to the rig, tugging a couple of the ropes gently and talking Kylo through the process of unhooking some of the lines, hoisting Kylo higher with the lines that support his lower body, and letting his chest lower toward the ground. “It’ll be tough to get the head angle to match Hux’s reference photos, so I might have to run some lines into your hair so that you don’t have to hold up your neck yourself—”

“I want Armitage to do it,” Kylo says.

“Yeah, okay,” Poe says. “That wasn’t what—but yeah, okay, sure. Hux can tie your hair back for you.”

“Armitage?” Kylo asks.

Armitage’s fingers are cramped around his camera. “Yeah,” he says faintly. “Yeah, I can—yeah.” He reaches into the pocket for the thin red rope that Poe had given him before, knowing damn well that that wasn’t what Poe had given him the rope for in the first place, Poe had given him the rope in case—

—and oh, the resulting flash of teaching Kylo how good it could feel to have his cock bound just about undoes Armitage entirely. Fuck.

His hands are shaking when he approaches Kylo. He kneels, and their heads are at about the same level.

“You doing okay?” Kylo asks, voice low and soft.

“Should ask you,” Armitage says, neatly deflecting the question. “You’re the one that’s been hanging here.”

“Are you getting good pictures?” Kylo asks. “Am I—am I doing good?”

“So good,” Armitage says. He opens his hand in front of Kylo’s eyes, lets him see the red rope. “Do you want me to tie your hair back? I can put the tie in now, and then we’ll do the inversions. Get your head pulled back into the appropriate position, and then we’ll get you down from there.”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, a little breathlessly. He fidgets a bit in the ropes, tips his head toward Armitage and lets Armitage start winding the rope through his hair.

(The movements come back like muscle memory, the way that Poe had taught him how to do this, the way that the rope felt twining through their fingers, and oh, it’s fucking glorious to touch Kylo’s hair like this now, to wind the rope through it and secure it in a bound bun at the back of his head, black hair shot through with red rope.)

“Are you comfortable?”

“Mmm,” Kylo says.

“You’re fidgeting.”

“I’m, uh.”

Armitage looks up the length of Kylo’s body. Kylo is hanging facing the floor, which means from Hux’s angle, he can’t see the gloriousness of Kylo’s ass embraced in mesh—but he can see that Kylo is hard, constrained by his underwear only because the ropes running along the creases of his thighs are pinning the fabric down, holding it steady.

“I’m totally fine,” Kylo says.

Armitage’s mouth is dry, his throat is closing. He wants—oh, fuck, he wants Kylo so badly, and he can’t have him, not in the way that he wants, not with the way things started—

“Things alright over there?” Poe asks. “Do you guys need a minute?”

“Yes,” Armitage says—at the same time that Kylo says, “Go ahead, invert me.”

“I can’t do both those things,” Poe says. “What’s it gonna be?”

Armitage squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. _12\. Intercourse, Armitage bottoming. 12. Intercourse, Armitage bottoming. 12. Intercourse—_

“I got this,” Kylo murmurs in his ear. “I can be good for you. I got this.”

“You’re…”

“You said it was fine,” Kylo says, the first hint of discomfort creeping into his voice. “You said—”

“I know,” Armitage says immediately, instantly realizing he was one the verge of a mistake, on the verge of making Kylo self-conscious when Kylo has nothing to be self-conscious about. “I did say it was fine if you got hard, and that’s because it is. I’m just—give me a moment to be jealous that my ex gets to see how stunning you are, yeah?”

Kylo goes red. “I don’t care about that,” he says softly. “It’s you, Armitage, it’s—”

Armitage cuts him off, tugs at the rope he’s just bound in Kylo’s hair. Kylo gasps into it, pulls back against the rope to deepen the sensation. Armitage thinks, then, of getting Kylo’s mouth on his dick, of using the rope to pull Kylo against his cock, of face-fucking him, hard, his hands wrapped in Kylo’s hair, and—he shouldn’t be thinking of this now.

(He shouldn’t be thinking of this at all.)

Kylo’s given him everything.

It’s selfish of Armitage to want more.

It’s selfish of Armitage to want more than he deserves.

(He’s never deserved a fraction of what he’s been given.)

“Go ahead,” Armitage says, getting up off the ground and taking his camera in his hands. “Invert him.”

He watches, as Poe unhooks the ropes he needs to, slides them, adjusts. Lifts Kylo’s knees and hips upward, tilting his body so that he’s hanging upside down.

“Now the head,” Armitage says, backing away a little to get a better angle. “Tie it back, bare his throat.” He lifts the camera, looks through it.

Kylo is perfect.

He starts taking pictures, loses himself almost immediately in the physical perfection of Kylo’s body, the way Kylo’s back is arched, his thighs pressing against the ropes, his back bowed and his cock hard, his throat bobbing as he swallows—

“Pineapple,” Kylo says hoarsely.

Armitage’s hand is on the safety scissors in his back pocket just as quickly as Poe’s hand is on his rope knife.

“No, don’t cut them—” Kylo says. “Just—Armitage, I need—”

“Shhh, shh, shh,” Armitage says, closing the distance between them. “What do you need, baby?”

Kylo flushes, bright red. “I’m, uh.”

Armitage crouches down next to him, puts one hand on Kylo’s face and the other on his chest to help ground him. “I’m right here,” he says softly. “Poe’s standing back. It’s just you and me. Tell me what you need.”

Kylo sobs, a half-stifled broken thing. “I don’t—I don’t want to—”

“Of course you don’t want to do this,” Armitage soothes, his heart shattering further, because of course this is how this goes down. Of course this is the monster he’s become. “I know I pressured you, honey, it’s okay, we’ll get these ropes off you right away, it’s—”

Kylo tucks his chin into his chest, tugging hard against the hair bondage so that he can better look up at Armitage. “Wait, what?” he asks in his normal voice.

“I know I—”

“ _Armitage_ ,” Kylo says insistently. “I’m, like. Fuck, this is embarrassing. I’m like, two seconds from coming.” He swallows hard. “I mean, maybe more like ten now that you’re freaking out instead of being all—professional and stuff.”

Armitage settles back on his heels, feeling oddly unmoored. “You’re going to come,” he says, a little dully.

“I mean,” Kylo says, shifting in the ropes. “I’d really—hell—I’d really like not to, because it’s—it’s public, and I—that was why I—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I can’t talk about how much I like the ropes right now. Because that’ll put me over. And I’ve been trying to think of, like. Sports and running and schoolwork and stuff but I literally can’t anymore, and I need you to. I need you to.” He takes a deep rasping breath.

Armitage is not going to look up. If he looks up, he’ll see the hard jut of Kylo’s dick against his mesh underwear. If he looks up, he’s going to want to get Kylo off. If he looks up, he’s going to want to press his tongue against him and damn the lack of privacy, fuck the part where Poe is here, fuck the part where it’s not even what Kylo wants because it’s something that Armitage wants badly—

—he couldn’t do that. He’s fundamentally incapable of doing anything unless Kylo wants it, and just as incapable of refusing anything Kylo asks for.

He’s lost.

“—tell me I can’t?” Kylo asks plaintively. “Just—just tell me I can’t?”

“You can’t,” Armitage mimics flatly, and then he swallows. Concentrates, tries to put some bite back into his voice. “You’re not allowed,” he says, sotto voce but still fairly certain that Poe can hear it anyway, because how could he not? Of course Poe would be listening, of course Poe cares about their _dynamic_ , of course Poe doesn’t want to hear anything about the actual story—like how Armitage couldn’t say _no_ , not now, and not ever, and now he’s fake-engaged to someone who loves him, someone that he might— “You can’t come,” Armitage says sharply. “Not under any circumstances. I would be very disappointed in you, Kylo.”

Kylo moans, eyelids fluttering. “Tell me—tell me I can have—something I want? If I can be good?”

“Anything,” Armitage says, standing up into a crouch and making a show of looking at his camera. “I have—twenty more pictures to get. If you can hang in there for me, if you can keep your underwear dry and your dick hard, I promise, I’ll give you whatever you want. Let me get these photos, Kylo, yeah?”

Kylo squeezes his eyes shut, chews his bottom lip. Swallows, hard. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely, a few moments later. “Yeah, I can—yeah.”

“Good boy,” Armitage says absently, standing up and turning away from Kylo.

“Anything?” Kylo asks from behind him.

“Absolutely anything,” Armitage promises.

 

Kylo does it.

His eyes are closed for the remainder of the photoshoot, his breathing strong and regular, and his cock so hard Armitage is sure it’s exquisitely painful for him.

He’s in subspace as Poe lets him down, and Armitage stands right next to him, lets Kylo slump blearily against him while Poe unties the ropes from the ring, lets them fall to the floor. When he loosens the ropes around Kylo’s chest, Armitage is right there with his hands, pressing his fingertips against the rope marks in Kylo’s skin, as though by rubbing with his thumbs, he'll be able to smooth out the marks in Kylo’s flesh.

“You’ll have to,” Poe says, and then gestures to the harness on Kylo’s hips.

“Yeah,” Armitage says. Kylo’s facing him, still rock hard, breathing heavily into his ear, and Armitage runs his hands soothingly down Kylo’s sides before starting to work on the ropes around Kylo’s hips. “I’ll undo these ones, I’ve got him.”

“I’ve got a bag over by the table,” Poe says. “As soon as you get him stepped out of the ropes, take him over there and get him some juice, yeah? I moved his clothes over there too.”

“Thank you,” Armitage says. He gets the last of the harness undone, lets the ropes fall to the floor. He reaches down and squeezes Kylo’s hand. “Come with me, love,” he says.

“Yeah, okay,” Kylo says roughly, and he squeezes back. “Don’t let go of my hand?”

“I won’t,” Armitage promises.

 

(He doesn’t, and the ache of it is like a puncture wound straight through his chest.)

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Context (updated July 17 to be more specific):  
> \- Poe is a rigger (ie, ties people up in rope and suspends them) on the weekends.  
> \- Kylo knows this, and asks Poe to assist with Armitage's thesis (by suspending Kylo so Armitage can take pictures).  
> \- Armitage consents to this, but kind of hopes that Kylo will fall for Poe because Armitage is really handling things poorly.  
> \- It's a moot point. Poe is a little flirty with Kylo, but it's completely unreciprocated, and Kylo only has eyes for Armitage.   
> \- The suspension is successfully done, Kylo has a good time, and no dicks get out during this chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> AFTER NOTES:  
> \- CRASH PADS AREN'T GOING TO FUCK YOU UP OR MAKE YOU LESS 'RESPONSIVE'. PLEASE USE CRASH PADS WHEN DOING SUSPENSIONS. YOU'RE A JERK, POE. (Also please don't do suspension bondage without getting some training first, that shit can be dangerous.)  
> \- for extra sadness, the Enigma songs include Sadeness, and also Mea Culpa, which is totally an Armitage song.  
> \- even if Kylo had known how BDSM power dynamics work, he still would have said what he said when Poe asked  
> \- if you thought there was a John Mulaney reference, you were right.  
> \- and if you thought there was a GLaDOS aesthetic, you were also right.  
> \- did you notice it's a series now? It's a series now!
> 
> Anyways, as per usual, there's some [discussions over on my blog](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/07/14/dtd-chapter-eighteen-breakdown/) if you're interested! This week, we talk a little bit about rope bondage, and rope bondage culture, and also, why it's really shitty to put your partner through tests that you kinda want them to fail. (That's right, Armitage, I'm looking at you. Shape the fuck up.)


	19. the inevitable heat death of the universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo asks for what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @deadsy for betas, and for sorting out my shit, and to @valda for copyediting all my boring mistakes.
> 
> [In case you missed it, I did a tumblr post](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/post/175986730269/hey-loving-dtd-to-bits-but-seeing-some-people) about last week's chapter, which discusses the rope suspension bit, and its purpose in the plot.
> 
> As always, if you have any questions or concerns about anything in the chapters, just let me know--I'm more than willing to provide more information if it's needed, or if you're concerned about anything.

Kylo’s world is narrowed, small, confined. His world is Armitage’s hand in his, fingers entwined, his world is Armitage’s thumb rubbing over the rope marks on his wrist, his world is his own cock, heavy and hard in his tight underwear, balls aching and mind fuzzy. His world is Armitage, murmuring softly in his ear. Armitage, guiding his hands through the sleeves of his sweater. Armitage, fidgeting with the button of Kylo’s jeans and sticking a straw into a juicebox for him.

Armitage.

Kylo blinks, and he’s standing on the sidewalk, conscious of his skin, and how he can still feel every single place the ropes were tied. There’s something tugging at the back of his head. He reaches up into his hair. There’s still rope there, thin rope tied back in a knot at the back of his head. He has a winter toque on his head, pulled tight around his ears. He can taste apple juice in his mouth, remembers watching Armitage wind up rope, drop the neat hanks back on the floor.

“I can take the rope out if you like,” Armitage says softly. His hand is intertwined with Kylo’s own.

“No,” Kylo says. “Leave my hair tied.” He concentrates a moment, tries to form a sentence. “This isn’t my hat?”

“Ah, no,” Armitage says. He stares down at the screen of his phone for a moment, and then peers down the street. “It’s stupid, I just—usually bring one because I like the warmth on my head after. I know it’s August.”

“I like it,” Kylo murmurs. He leans against Armitage, nuzzles his hair. “Bus stop?”

“I called us a cab,” Armitage says.

There’s something in Armitage’s voice.

“Are you okay?” Kylo asks.

“I’m fine,” Armitage responds automatically.

“Are you?”

“…there’s a lot of memories in there,” Armitage says. “I’m trying not to dwell on them. How are you?”

Kylo takes a moment to think. He feels—warm, even though it’s cloudy out, feels languid, like he’s just woken up from a nap. Slow, like he isn’t quite thinking right, and he’s so conscious of his cock that it’s hard to think about anything else. “Did I do good?”

“You were magnificent,” Armitage says, stepping forward as a vehicle pulls up in front of them. “Here, in you get.”

The few moments that Kylo is bereft of Armitage at his side are unfathomably long, and when Armitage slides in beside him, Kylo leans, heavy, into him.

“Shh, hey,” Armitage says. “Let me get my seatbelt done up before you put your head back down, alright?”

“Yes,” Kylo says. “Yes, sorry.”

“No,” Armitage says, pecking a kiss onto Kylo’s cheek. His lips are dry and cool. “No apologies. You were fantastic.”

It feels good to be praised like this.

It feels good to wear clothing after being tied up, feels good to have the rough fabric of his jeans rubbing against the rope marks on his thighs, feels good to have Armitage’s hand in his and his head on Armitage’s shoulder, feels good to have—all of this, and nothing more, because what more could he possibly need? His entire body is a livewire of sensation, and it’s all focused toward Armitage, it’s all—

“I need you,” he murmurs into Armitage’s ear. “I was thinking—the whole time I was suspended. I thought about what it would be like if you touched me. If you came and stood next to me. If you were somewhere where I could feel you against me. You were so far away.”

“I was taking pictures,” Armitage says, and that same tension is back in his voice again. “This was for taking pictures.”

“Yes,” Kylo says. He lets his hand fall from Armitage’s shoulder to his lap, carefully creeps his fingers toward Armitage’s crotch. “I thought—about what I want. About what I could ask for from you.”

Armitage holds his breath for a moment, before exhaling. “And?”

“I,” Kylo says—and then he swallows.

Armitage doesn’t even chide him— _use your words, Kylo_ —just rubs his back, and then chuckles.

(He made Armitage _laugh_.)

“What,” Kylo asks.

Armitage looks down at his crotch, where Kylo’s hand covers it completely, and then over at Kylo. “Aren’t you forward.”

Kylo flushes, goes to pull his hand away—

“It’s fine,” Armitage says, and he tilts his hips up into Kylo’s palm, a little—just enough that Kylo can feel that Armitage is starting to get hard. “We’re nearly home, alright?”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, settling back onto Armitage’s shoulder. “We’re nearly home.”

 

The lassitude isn’t gone by the time Kylo follows Armitage into the apartment, and the edge of it doesn’t dissipate even when Armitage drops to his knees immediately, starts fumbling with Kylo’s button.

“Oh, fuck,” Kylo breathes.

“If you’d just—worn yoga pants—like I told you—” Armitage huffs, tugging at the button and then yanking the zipper. “—then I’d have had your dick in my mouth already.”

“You don’t have to,” Kylo says, blinking slowly. “You must be tired.” He’s still—oh, fuck, he’s so hard from the ropes but he’s so fuzzed out on—endorphins, or whatever the fuck is going on here. It feels like the blood hasn’t rushed properly away from his head yet, except for the blood that’s still located in his dick. He feels like he’s floating, somehow, grounded only by the touch of Armitage’s body on his own.

Armitage tugs Kylo’s pants down, looks up at him. “Kylo,” he says. “Do you want a blowjob?”

Kylo nods. “Yes, please, Armitage. So badly.”

“Take that ugly sweater off.”

Kylo does—strips off his sweater, nipples hardening against the cool air in the apartment. Armitage inhales sharply, and Kylo can feel his entire body tingle, feel his cock throb in his tight underwear.

“You look fucking gorgeous,” Armitage says. “Can you stay standing for this? You can hold onto my hair to steady yourself.”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, even though his knees already feel weak. “Yeah, I can—yeah. Please. Armitage.” He takes a deep breath, the lassitude retreating in the face of Armitage’s attraction to him, and his own increasing arousal. The arousal that hasn’t really faded, the headrush that’s still there from hanging upside down for so long. He realizes he has no idea how long they were at the warehouse, because his entire memory of it is a dream-like trance of ropes holding him firm, and Armitage’s camera clicking irregularly in the background, the intensity of the way that Armitage watched him, biting at his lip, and tracing the outline of Kylo’s body in the ropes.

Armitage reaches up, places his palms on the mesh covering Kylo’s hips. “Where did you even get these,” he says, staring at Kylo’s crotch. “Is that what you wanted those fucking websites for?”

“I told you I wasn’t going to masturbate,” Kylo says. “As if I’d jerk off to headless website models when you’re literally right there.” He grins, tilts his head. “You liked them, huh?”

“I’ve never seen you look so beautiful,” Armitage says softly, before he frowns. “That’s a lie, you look this beautiful all the time, you just—you caught me off guard, Kylo. You’re always—catching me off guard.” He exhales heavily, drags his palms down Kylo’s thighs.

Kylo shudders, leans back against the door to the apartment. They’ve hardly made it inside at all, and Kylo never wants to go any further if this is what he can have, right here. If this is what he gets, right here. If this is what he—

“Holy fuck, Armitage,” he breathes. Looks down to watch Armitage mouthing at his dick through the underwear, his breath on Kylo’s skin muted by the fabric, the warmth of his tongue dulled. “I want your mouth on my dick, can you—can you get my underwear out of the way, please, I’ll die, I’ve been hard forever—”

“You’re not going to die,” Armitage murmurs into his hip. One of his hands is cupping Kylo’s balls, the other is reaching around them, putting pressure behind.

Kylo grinds his cock forward, gasping and winding his hands through his own hair before remembering he’s allowed to touch Armitage’s. Armitage is still wearing his hair gel from earlier, hair plastered to his scalp, and Kylo just—puts his hands in it, starts breaking it apart like he’s been longing to do since the very first time he saw Armitage. His hair is thick and stiff from product from the top surface all the way to his scalp, but Kylo starts breaking it apart with his fingers, loosening up the strands and finger-combing them, pulling Armitage’s loosened hair forward so that it falls over his face, and all the while Armitage is mouthing at his cock, licking over the fabric of Kylo’s underwear, breathing heavily against him.

“Thought I would die,” Kylo mutters. “First day at work. You yelled at me for fucking up an order because I couldn’t fucking pay attention when you were right there, and you looked so much like— _him_ , so much like _that_ Hux, the brilliant one who suspended the car from the bridge—there were customers there, I had to—go to the back and try to calm down, I was so turned on—”

“Liar,” Armitage says. “You did not, I was cruel to you. I thought you were…”

“It was so good,” Kylo breathes, scratching at Armitage’s scalp, continuing to loosen up his hair so that he can gently tug on it, bury his hands in it. “I knew I wanted you from the moment I stepped into the store, and then you were such a fucking prick but you look so _good_ furious—but you look good happy too—and you look good turned on—fuck, I’m never going to tire of looking at you. I’ll do anything for you.”

Armitage does something with the hand between Kylo’s legs, and there’s a small hazy spark of pleasure, so vague that it’s gone almost immediately, and Kylo—and Kylo knows what he wants Armitage to do for his favour, he knows—

Oh, fucking _hell_ and there’s no time to even ask for it because Armitage has moved entirely, has gotten up on his knees and caught the edge of Kylo’s underwear with his teeth, is pulling it out and away—

The release of pressure on Kylo’s dick is almost enough to make him come immediately, and he hisses all his breath out through his teeth as his cock slaps up against his stomach—and then there’s no air left in his lungs for the thing Armitage does next, which is open his mouth and swallow Kylo most of the way back, gagging hard as Kylo’s dick goes down his throat.

“Sorry,” Kylo slurs, forcing his hips against the wall so he doesn’t thrust up, struggling to stay in control when Armitage is so hot and wet and _tight_ , and his fucking _tongue_ is all over Kylo’s cock. “Sorry, sorry—”

Armitage pulls off, a string of drool briefly connecting his lips to Kylo’s cock before it breaks. “Don’t apologize.” He swallows hard, sits back on his heels. His face is flushed down into his neck and under his shirt, and he’s staring at Kylo’s crotch. “I’m going to ask for this,” Armitage says unsteadily. “And I know you didn’t want to last time, and I just want to make sure that you know it’s okay if you don’t want to this time either. I know you’re gentle,” he says, looking up at Kylo from under a lank, wax-weighted chunk of hair. “But, Kylo. Do you want to fuck my throat, Kylo?”

Kylo groans. “I, uh,” he says. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to focus and think—he remembers how he’d felt last time, how even the merest thought of being rough with Armitage had been enough to make him sick—but he doesn’t feel sick right now, he feels—he feels—

“Yes,” Kylo breathes. “Yes, let me?”

Armitage exhales heavily, and tips his head toward Kylo, waits for Kylo to put his hands in Armitage’s hair, and then leans forward, opens his mouth, and laps at Kylo’s cock with his tongue. “My hand is on your thigh,” Armitage says. “Three taps if I need out, okay?”

“One tap,” Kylo says. “I’ll stop for one tap.”

Armitage looks up at him and smiles, viciously, and then immediately descends down Kylo’s dick, gagging at the base of it before pulling up again. He’s doing that thing with his tongue, and Kylo’s hands clench in Armitage’s hair. He pulls Armitage firmly away from him, and Armitage moans, the hand on Kylo’s thigh briefly going between his own legs. Kylo holds him there, right at the head of his cock, uses his grip on Armitage’s hair to keep Armitage from descending.

“Hand,” Kylo gasps. “Thigh, Armitage—Armitage, for fuck’s sake.”

Armitage slaps his hand back on Kylo’s bare thigh so sharply that it stings, and, in turn, Kylo pulls Armitage down onto his cock, fucking into his throat again and again. Every time he pulls Armitage off so that Armitage can breathe, there’s more drool on his mouth. Armitage’s pupils are dilated. Kylo is so hard his cock is throbbing. When he pulls Armitage back against him, his dick is completely enveloped by Armitage’s mouth and his throat and it’s so warm and wet and Kylo’s not going to last, he’s not going to—

“Fuck, I’m trying,” Kylo babbles. “I’m trying, but I’m going to—fuck, Armitage, your mouth, your fucking mouth—”

Armitage’s hand is tight on the base of his cock, tight enough to stave off his orgasm for a moment, just for a moment or two—

“Tongue,” Kylo says. “Feels amazing, holy shit, can’t believe how good you look right now, on your knees for me, your hair is—fuck—”

“Do it,” Armitage gasps. “Fucking do it, Kylo,” and he releases his grip, flattens both hands on Kylo’s thighs, and shoves his mouth all the way to the base of Kylo’s cock.

“—I’m coming—Armitage—”

It’s like being run over by a truck. Kylo’s balls tighten and his gut twists. The orgasm starts at his cock and flashes down to his toes and up to his head, sparking up through his entire body like he’s being knocked completely to the ground. It feels absolutely phenomenal, a full-body orgasm of electrical charge, like sparks are shooting out to his fingertips and past his toes. His fucking _teeth_ are tingling, and his dick keeps pulsing for way longer than usual.

Kylo is still technically coming, though he’s long since ceased ejaculating, when he slumps back against the wall with his arm over his face. Armitage pulls off, coughing.

“Oh my god,” Armitage rasps. “Holy shit, Kylo.”

Kylo opens his eyes, sinks to the floor without really thinking about it.

Armitage is a wreck—eyes all blown, face splotchy, lips red and wet with spit and Kylo’s come, some of which is drooling out the corner of his mouth. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, and then drags his tongue across the back of his hand, and Kylo can feel arousal curling in his gut even though he’s way too wrecked right now to be able to respond in any way.

Kylo reaches out and touches him anyway, runs his hand down the side of Armitage’s face. Armitage turns into him, licking at his palm, and then shuffles closer, still on his knees, and curls up against Kylo.

“Oh, god, don’t,” Kylo says. “I’m still leaking, you’ll get come all over your sweater.”

“That’s fine,” Armitage says, burrowing against him and rutting his own cock up against Kylo’s thigh, his mouth nuzzling at Kylo’s neck. “Come on my sweater is the least of my worries.” He thrusts up against Kylo again, hard cock poking into Kylo’s hip, and then settles, tonguing idly at Kylo’s neck, his hand rubbing between his legs. “How are you feeling?”

“… exhausted?” Kylo says. “Like I’ve just run a marathon, here, let me, I just need a second—”

“No, no,” Armitage says. “Later, alright? Let’s get you into the tub.” He reaches down into his pants, adjusts his dick, and then stands up, offering a hand to Kylo.

Kylo squints, bleary-eyed, at him. He could have sworn Armitage was hard, but he can’t see it now. “What did you do?”

“Tucked my dick into my waistband,” Armitage says, rolling his eyes. He lifts the hem of his shirt, just enough that Kylo can see the head of his cock, and then lets it drop again. “Same as anyone trying to keep it out of the way—now come on, want me to run you a bath?”

“Only if there’s bubbles,” Kylo says. Fuck, he’s zoned out. His entire body feels warm, and he swears he can still feel aftershocks of his orgasm.

“I’m pretty sure I can make that happen for you,” Armitage says.

 

The bath feels fantastic. Kylo lies there, half-drowsing, letting his eyes fall half shut as he watches Armitage pluck his contacts from his eyes and pitch them into the trash, wash his glasses and settle them onto his face, walk over next to the tub to dry his hands. Tucked into the waistband or not, Kylo can still see the jut of Armitage’s hardon, and even if he couldn’t see it, Armitage is absently and completely unselfconsciously touching it every few minutes, as if to remind both of them that it’s there.

“Does it feel good?” Kylo asks. “Dragging it out.”

Armitage flushes almost immediately, turns away. “Sorry,” he says, through gritted teeth. “Habit.”

Kylo sits upright, reaches out. “No, wait—”

Armitage stops.

Kylo places his hand on the side of Armitage’s pants, even though it’s wet, and squeezes his thigh reassuringly. (Armitage’s thighs are so narrow, it’s beautiful.) “It’s okay,” Kylo says. “You don’t have to answer. I didn’t realize it was a sore spot.” He should have, though, is the thing. Should have realized that Armitage was self-conscious about it even though Kylo doesn’t know why. He’ll be more cautious in the future. He can do this. He can be good for Armitage.

“There are…” Armitage starts—and then he stops. His thigh is tense under Kylo’s hand. “There are a lot of sore spots,” Armitage says finally. “I did— _that_ —modelled. The suspensions. For him. For a long time. It was…it didn’t have to be, but it ended up…objectifying, and I don’t know how I feel—about being on the other side of the lens. About having you in…”

Kylo leans out of the tub, nuzzles the side of his face against Armitage’s leg. “I mean,” he says. “We don’t have to keep doing that.”

“But we just did,” Armitage says. His eyes are shut, face tipped up toward the bathroom ceiling. “We’ve never—we’ve never gone back on a thing once we did it.”

“Mmm,” Kylo says. “I mean, no, but, like—all the stuff that we’ve done that we never went back on was better for both of us. This doesn’t look like it’s better for you.”

“It’s…not,” Armitage says. “But you…”

“I also like the way things are,” Kylo says honestly. “I’m good with the stuff on the list. Are you okay? You look stressed, Armitage.”

Armitage’s mouth twists. “I’m always stressed. Also, you’re dripping on the bathroom floor.”

“Right,” Kylo says, pulling himself back into the tub. There’s a wet handprint on the thigh of Armitage’s pants.

“I should have talked with you,” Armitage says. “About—roles, and what to expect, and the things Poe might say, and—”

“Did he say something weird?” Kylo asks. “To you?” He swallows, tries to stifle the immediate defensiveness, tries to be gentle. “I wish he hadn’t said anything to you.”

“Look,” Armitage says. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, and then swallows. “Let’s not talk about this now. I should have shut this down before it happened, I knew better than to bring you into a—into a sex dungeon.”

“ _That’s_ what a sex dungeon looks like?” Kylo asks incredulously, before realizing he sounds like an idiot. “No, there’s no way they have sex in there, there’s no—beds, or anything, it’s just…weird furniture.” He’d imagined something completely different. Like—velvet, or draped curtains, or a red room. “I mean, it’s a warehouse.”

“It’s a dungeon—”

“You know those posters are all over campus,” Kylo points out. “There’s a group of undergrads that go there for special sessions on Sunday afternoons where they drink and draw the people that Poe hangs up, it’s got some kind of super corny name to it.”

“Oh god,” Armitage says, rolling his eyes. “That’s new, ugh. I didn’t know.”

“That’s the only reason I knew to ask him,” Kylo says. “I missed three quarters of what went on when we were there, and I was hard because you were looking at me.” He hesitates, and then goes for it. “You could look at me here too, Armitage.”

Armitage’s shoulders relax, just a little—just enough that Kylo can see it.

“Thank you,” he says softly, leaning over and pressing his lips against the top of Kylo’s head. “I’m going to go make us some food, okay?”

“Thanks, Armitage,” Kylo says.

He waits until Armitage leaves, and then sinks slowly back into the bath.

 

_[Armitage has sent a photo!]_

_Armitage: shit sorry shouldn’t have sent that_

_Kylo: Good morning to you too._

Kylo opens up the picture, squints at it.

_Kylo: Wait, is this me?_

It is, though. Even without Armitage’s confirmation, he knows that it is.

It’s one of the photos from yesterday—Kylo, tied up, bound with ropes and inverted, his head pulled back to expose his throat, and his pecs pushing against the chest harness. It hadn’t felt that tight yesterday—but now that he’s looking at the photograph, he can see how his body is straining against the ropes.

It doesn’t even look like him, is the thing.

It looks like somebody else, somebody gorgeous and otherworldly, tied up and elevated. Kylo has no idea what the fuck Armitage has done with the photo—if he’s run it through some kind of software, or changed the lighting, or something, but there are dramatic shadows thrown across Kylo’s body, shadows that allow Kylo to keep his modesty even though he remembers exactly how hard he was by the time he actually got inverted. (So hard he was aching, he could hardly breathe, and all he could see was Armitage, watching him through a camera lens.)

_Kylo: Holy shit._

_Kylo: You must have spent all morning editing that._

_Kylo: That doesn’t even look like me._

_Armitage: It does, though, is the thing._

_Armitage: It looks exactly like you._

_Armitage: Fuck, what the hell have I done._

Kylo stares at his phone, waiting for another message to pop up—but it doesn’t.

_Kylo: Armitage, what’s going on?_

Kylo waits. He wants to look at the picture again—wants to download a copy so that he can keep it forever—but he can’t stop staring at the messages, willing the next one from Armitage to show up.

_Armitage: Nothing._

_Armitage: I didn’t sleep much last night, and I’ve been editing all morning._

_Armitage: It’s getting to me._

_Armitage: This beer is shit too._

_Kylo: Where are you that you’re drinking beer at nine am?_

_Kylo: Look, I’ll just come get you._

_Armitage: No, you don’t need to do that. I’ll let the rest of it rot, it’s some experimental thing Bala-Tik imported from somewhere._

_Kylo: I mean, my question about why you’re there at nine am stands._

_Armitage: You’re probably at the library._

_Kylo: Yes._

_Armitage: I’m at the bar._

_Armitage: We’re both working._

_Armitage: What does it matter?_

_Armitage: Okay, the coffee is shite too._

_Kylo: lol_

_Armitage: Seriously, this is nasty._

_Kylo: Do you want me to run you over something from Resistance? Tea? Cinnamon buns?_

_Armitage: No, I need to focus._

_Armitage: Text me something nice at, like, seven?_

 

_Kylo: It’s eight forty-five, sorry, I’m late. Got caught up._

_Kylo: And then nervous._

_Kylo: But I’ve been thinking about it._

_Armitage: ??_

_Kylo: What I want._

_Kylo: Well, I’ve been thinking about a lot of things._

_Kylo: Like how fucking amazing yesterday was, holy shit. The blowjob. I was so fucked on endorphins after, and I think that’s the hardest I’ve ever come. Felt like I was high in the best way. You’re so gorgeous. And you didn’t even get undressed, you just led me into the apartment and pushed me back against the door and blew me. I can’t stop thinking about you._

_Kylo: You know that, right?_

_Kylo: That I can’t stop thinking about you._

_Armitage: Kylo._

_Kylo: Well, I can’t._

_Armitage: Aren’t you at the library?_

_Kylo: I came home. I’m in the tub._

_Armitage: Oh, I’m at Bala-Tik’s still. I’ll come home._

_Armitage: Back._

_Kylo: But I’m still thinking about you, and how much I love you, and how fucking gorgeous you are, and how you saved me yesterday. I seriously thought I was going to embarrass myself in public, and I don’t want to do that in public, I only ever want to do it for you, in front of you—Armitage, you’re just._

_Kylo: Wow._

_Kylo: And you stopped me. And I needed that more than anything. Thank you._

_Armitage: Sweetheart._

_Kylo: I love you._

_Kylo: But you’re distracting me and I texted you because I had something to say._

_Kylo: I want your fingers. That’s my anything. My anything that you said I could have if I didn’t_

_Kylo: You know._

_Kylo: During the thing._

_Kylo: I want your fingers, Armitage._

_Armitage: … you want me to finger you?_

_Kylo: Yeah._

_Armitage: I didn’t think you wanted to bottom?_

_Kylo: I didn’t think I wanted a lot of stuff._

_Kylo: But, like. You do both, right? Some people do both. I’m sure you told me that. And when I finger you, or when you fuck yourself with a dilemma it always looks like it’s really good._

_Armitage: I’m vers, yes._

_Kylo: Shit, dildo, sorry._

_Armitage: Versatile._

_Kylo: Wasn’t in my autocorrect._

_Kylo: It is now, though._

_Kylo: But you said I could have anything._

_Kylo: That’s what I want, Armitage._

_Kylo: I want your fingers inside me._

_Kylo: (How do I make this good for you? Do I have to talk about it a certain way? Is it weird to call it fingering, because I’ve only ever seen that used for girls? Is there stuff I have to do in advance? I don’t know how to do any of this?)_

_Armitage: …_

_Armitage: How you’re talking about it is fine._

_Armitage: How you’re_

_Armitage: I’m coming home._

_Armitage: Don’t you dare go anywhere._

_Kylo: Ok._

Kylo sets his phone down, lets his eyes drift shut. He’s grinning as he sinks down into the water until his head is submerged.

Under here, all he can hear is the beating of his own heart, echoing in his ears. He skates his hands over his own body. The rope marks have faded, but he can still feel the ghost of their remnants in his skin, can still remember how it felt to have Armitage watching him. It feels warm—like his entire body is heated, like he’s been filled up from the inside out with liquid light, like it’s something physical that he could project from his skin. He can feel the nerves, there, too, tingling across his arm and on the back of his neck—but submerged underwater like this, it doesn’t seem so bad.

Armitage is going to take care of him.

No matter how scary this is going to be, Armitage will take care of him.

 

Kylo is drifting, eyes closed, when he hears a sudden explosion of noise from the main room, dulled by the water. He sits up, pushes his wet hair back from his face, and blinks away the water. Armitage is standing right there, looking a little wild-eyed.

“Kylo,” he says.

“Armitage.”

Armitage shifts from foot to foot, and then gestures with the phone he’s carrying in his hand. “Are you—were you—?”

Kylo frowns. “Was I what?”

“Serious,” Armitage says. “About…”

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “I want your fingers in my ass.” (His voice hardly shakes at all, and he feels remarkably proud of that.)

Armitage goes bright red, drops to his knees, and starts digging around underneath the sink.

“What are you doing?” Kylo asks, peering over at him. “Did I say something wrong?”

“I want to do this,” Armitage says, his words blurring into each other, muffled by the cabinet. “I’m—I’ll do this now, if you want, do you want to do this now?”

“Uh,” Kylo says. “I mean, yeah, but I haven’t—done anything to prepare, or anything—”

“It’s fine,” Armitage says. “It’s fine, I have—there.” He emerges carrying a small lockbox, which he unlocks with a key from his keychain, and then starts digging through, pulling out a set of gloves and a container of lube. “There. I have gloves. It’s fine. Do you want—”

“Holy shit,” Kylo breathes. He can feel his dick starting to harden. “Yeah, I totally—what do I need to do?” He leans out of the tub, tries to get a look at whatever else Armitage has in the bin, but Armitage just shuts the lid on it, shoves it back in the cupboard unlocked.

“Soap,” Armitage says. “Water, whatever. Regular shower routine, I don’t care—I have gloves, I’ll go—toss extra towels on the bed—I—I’m gonna make this so good for you, Kylo. I’m going to—fuck.” He waves his hand vaguely, gloves flopping around. “Just—” He takes a deep breath, appears to be making an effort to calm himself. “Sorry,” he says, eyes shut. “I’m making this weird.”

“It’s okay,” Kylo says. He feels remarkably calm. “It is a bit weird, isn’t it?”

“It’s going to be really good,” Armitage says, repeating himself. “I’ll go get the bed ready.” And then he’s gone again.

Kylo takes a deep breath, and then another. Debates whether he should soak for a few more minutes, to give Armitage some time—but no, fuck it, he doesn’t feel like it. He’s not going to.

He sits up, works some soap into a lather on his washcloth, and pushes himself up onto his knees in order to wash, cleaning his dick just as carefully as he regularly does, and then cleaning his ass as well. (There’s _hair_ back there, same as there always is, and he’s only just realized Armitage never has hair there, so maybe Armitage—does something different than Kylo does?)

Kylo isn’t sure if he’s entirely prepared—he’s not sure what he needs to do to be entirely _clean_ , because every time he’s had his fingers or a toy in Armitage, it’s like Armitage has never shit out of that hole in his life—but Armitage has gloves, and Armitage is making it sound like everything is going to be fine. Armitage is making this sound like it’s normal, so Kylo is going to do his absolute best to follow his example.

He drains the tub, wrings out his washcloth and tosses it in the laundry, and then grabs a towel and roughly towels himself off, wraps it around his waist.

“Hey,” Armitage says from the door. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m being weird and pressuring you about this, and I don’t want to be preda—”

“Please finger me,” Kylo says, interrupting. He can feel his ears burning as he says it.

(Armitage is flushed too, his skin pink and his hair ruffled.)

Armitage’s hands immediately go to the hem of his sweater, fidgeting with it. It’s yesterday’s sweater, Kylo can see a streak of dried fluid just above Armitage’s hip, from where Kylo’s softening dick had rubbed when Armitage was rutting against him and oh _hell_ , Armitage had gone to the bar like that—

He crosses the bathroom in two steps, gathers Armitage into his arms, and kisses him. “I want,” Kylo says into Armitage’s mouth. “Your fingers. Inside me.”

Armitage kisses him back, all tongue and lips and— “Oh, fuck it,” Armitage mutters. “Let me get my sweater off, come to bed with me, sweetheart.”

Kylo lets the towel drop to the floor, and follows.

Kylo’s on his back, and his dick is down Armitage’s throat, and Armitage’s gloved hands are on his thighs, and there’s something about the different texture on Armitage’s hands that feels so intensely erotic Kylo can hardly concentrate. He whines in the back of his throat, tosses his head from side to side on the pillow as Armitage swallows hard around him and then slowly pulls off.

“That was really good,” Kylo says when he can breathe again. He’s hard and aching and nervous. He feels amazing.

“Alright,” Armitage says. His face is flushed and his lips are wet. “Do you want me to talk you through this, or do you want me to suck you through it?”

“…talk, then suck,” Kylo says. “I’m nervous as hell, but I’m less nervous when you’re sucking me.” He can feel his heart pounding in his throat, and he’s really glad that he’s lying down for this, because he doesn’t think there’s a hope in hell of him being able to stand—or even being able to kneel on all fours without collapsing.

“We don’t have to do this now,” Armitage says, breathless. He’s shirtless, nipples peaked, but still wearing pants. He chews at his lower lip. “I mean, we maybe shouldn’t do this now.”

“I want to do this now,” Kylo says.

Armitage hesitates. “We shouldn’t—”

“Please,” Kylo says.

Armitage nods.

(Kylo can see the jut of Armitage’s erection, pressing against the fabric of his pants.)

“Can you take your pants off?” Kylo asks. “I want to look at you.”

Armitage nods again, pushes his pants down his hips, and then sits on the bed and pulls them off his legs. He’s wearing snug black boxers, the same soft and expensive fabric that he usually wears. When his pants are off, he settles back between Kylo’s legs, nuzzles against Kylo’s knee. “So,” he says. “I’m going to do the same thing to you that you usually do to me, but slower. I’ll start with rubbing you externally, and I’ll blow you the entire time I do it. If you want to come, you can come.” He turns his head to the side, kisses Kylo’s knee. “You’ve got an amazing refractory period, it’s totally okay if you want to come during this, alright? I’m going to use a lot of lube, so it’s probably going to feel really disgusting, but that’s why the towel is down. We’ll have a shower together after everything’s over and I’ll get you all cleaned up. I’ve got the gloves on, so you don’t need to worry about anything—between the lube and the gloves, everything’s going to be really slick and nice. When I start penetrating you, you just want to do your best to—breathe through it, relax as much as you can. If it hurts, even if it only hurts a little, tell me, and I’ll change what I’m doing. If you want me to stop, just safeword, or say stop. If penetration feels alright, if it’s something that you like, I’ll keep doing it while I blow you. You know how I always have you curl your fingers while you’re in me?”

“For your, uh…that spot,” Kylo says. “Yeah, I remember.” He’s not that good at that part yet—he recognizes Armitage’s prostate by touch, sometimes, but it’s hard for him to hit it consistently, and it’s almost impossible to keep pressure on it when Armitage starts shifting around like he usually does.

“As long as you’re comfortable with the initial penetration, I’ll locate yours,” Armitage says. “It could be really intense—so just do your best to communicate with me, alright?”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, shifting around on the bed. His cock is hard and heavy, and he wants this badly, can hardly think whenever he looks down his body and sees Armitage’s gloved hands on his thighs. “Please, Armitage.”

Armitage nods, chews at his lip a moment, and then bends down and takes Kylo’s cock back in his mouth.

He’s so gentle about it—and the blowjob is so fucking good, just like every other blowjob Armitage has ever given him—that Kylo doesn’t even realize Armitage has moved his hands until he feels slick pressure behind his balls. It’s the same place that Armitage had been pressing yesterday, when Kylo was up against the door, and Kylo groans, turns his head and presses his face into the pillow.

Armitage pulls back until he’s only shallowly sucking on Kylo’s cock, slides his gloved slick fingers just a little lower until the tip of his finger is actually pressing against Kylo’s hole—and even then, he doesn’t attempt to penetrate, just applies light pressure with his gloved finger, and flicks his tongue around the head of Kylo’s dick. Kylo shudders, moans. His breath is coming shallowly now, and he presses back against Armitage, trying to get more pressure on his ass and his cock further down Armitage’s throat at the same time—

Armitage pulls back, chuckling. “Look at you,” he purrs. “So greedy, you’re gorgeous. You want my finger, Kylo? You want me to put it in you?” He curls his other gloved hand around the base of Kylo’s cock, starts jacking him off slow, grinning at him with that possessive wide grin where all his teeth show. His finger is circling around Kylo’s ass without actually going in.

Kylo whines. “Please, please—can you just—please—”

And then Armitage grins wickedly at him, darts his tongue out to lick at his lips, and presses his finger against Kylo, and it slides right in.

Kylo tenses against the intrusion automatically. The stretch is—weird, and his impulse is to bear down, to push _out_ , and—

Armitage bends forward and takes Kylo’s cock in his mouth again, sucks hard, and then drags his teeth up the shaft.

“Holy fuck,” Kylo breathes. He’s shaking. He can feel it in his hands and his thighs, and he’s so aroused he can hardly think, but it just feels so fucking weird at the same time and he has no idea what he’s supposed to be doing or how he’s supposed to be reacting—

Armitage pulls off, nuzzles his head against Kylo’s cock. “Relax,” he breathes, and his breath is hot against Kylo’s skin. “I know it’s strange, I can feel you pushing against me—do you want me to take my finger out?”

“Try and—try and do the thing—” Kylo gasps. “I kind of—I kind of hate this right now, but it always looks so good for you, I just—I can’t relax on it, it feels so weird—I want to get it, Armitage, I want to know, can you—can you just—?”

“Shhh,” Armitage says, and brings his other hand up to his mouth and takes the cuff of the glove in his teeth, peels it, inside-out, over his hand and drops it on the bed. “Let me get my bare hand on you, I want my bare hand on you. Hold still for me, I’m just gonna try for another…three seconds, and then I’ll take it out and we can try again in a bit, alright? Can you bear three seconds for me? One, two—”

Armitage does—something, what the hell is it—and everything—is this his—Kylo squeezes his eyes shut, gasps, arches up off the bed. Armitage’s mouth is on his cock and there’s one hand on the base of his cock, and the other hand is—Armitage’s finger is—

There are stars exploding behind Kylo’s eyes. He throws his arms over his face to block out the light. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants. “I can’t—I don’t know—what are you—what’s happening—” He’s shaking, and he can’t stop.

“Found it,” Armitage smirks, and Kylo can feel the curve of Armitage’s smile against his abs as Armitage pulls off his cock and plants a line of kisses down his stomach.

“I didn’t know I was gonna come like that,” Kylo says blearily. “Holy shit, Armitage, that was amazing.”

“You didn’t come,” Armitage says. He’s grinning, his hair fallen down in front of his face, and his face red. “Kylo, you didn’t. Look.”

Kylo blinks, and props himself up on his elbow. (Fuck, he’s shaky.) His cock is still hard, and there’s no semen on his pelvis, nothing except a small smear of pre-come on his hipbone, and a trail of wetness that must be from Armitage’s spit. “I didn’t? I thought I did?”

“Dry orgasm,” Armitage says matter-of-factly. “Those happen sometimes. Was that one pretty good? It looked amazing.”

“So good,” Kylo breathes. “Can you—”

“Of course I can,” Armitage says, and he lowers his mouth back to Kylo’s cock, and moves his finger inside Kylo.

Everything starts whiting out again. Every time Armitage rubs against his prostate, it’s like a shock right to Kylo’s guts, a pure jolt of pleasure that’s stronger than anything he’s ever felt before. He knows, somehow, in the back of his mind, that he should be—helping, somehow. Trying to get Armitage off, or at least teasing him, communicating with him, doing something—but instead, he just whines and twitches and thrusts back against Armitage and tilts his hips and—

—his heart is pounding and he’s sweating and he’s so turned on right now, his cock throbbing and his balls heavy and full, and Armitage is just—inside him and pulling out slowly—

Someone is murmuring _no no don’t stop don’t stop_ over and over again and Kylo doesn’t even realize it’s him until Armitage says, “Shhh, just getting more lube, there you go—two fingers now, you’re doing so well, I’m so proud of you—”

Kylo arches up on the bed, screams into his fist, his other hand automatically going down to his cock and clutching at it.

“Yes,” Armitage says, voice low and husky. “Good idea—touch yourself how you want, stroke yourself off, Kylo—”

“Make me come,” Kylo whimpers. “I want to come, Armitage, please, I need to come, I want you to—can you make me come, can you make me—”

“Right here,” Armitage says. “I’ve got you right here, just—here—my fingers—you’re taking my fingers so well, I can imagine how well you’ll take my cock if you ever want it—a toy—more fingers—your own fingers, watching you fuck yourself for me, watching you—”

Kylo gasps, then gasps again—and he’s coming, actually coming this time. He can feel it, splattering on his chest and dripping off his fingers, can feel his ass twitching around Armitage’s fingers, Armitage’s fingers slipping out just as Kylo bears down, and he’s still—he’s still coming somehow, his vision going fuzzy. His legs are trembling so much right now, there’s no way he could stand—he would fall over if he tried—and then Armitage is pressing his gloved knuckles back against Kylo’s ass, and Kylo is—sobbing, for some reason, into his own elbow and he doesn’t even know why, he doesn’t feel upset or anything, he’s just—he’s just _crying_ for some reason, isn’t that fucking stupid—

“I gotcha,” Armitage says, and Kylo can hear the remaining glove being peeled off before Armitage is there, sitting on Kylo’s chest, holding Kylo’s face between his bare hands and bending down to kiss him, over and over and over again. “You did so well,” he murmurs. “I’m so proud of you, you did so well.”

Kylo takes a deep shuddering breath, and then another. Reaches up and pulls Armitage down close to him, tries to get himself coordinated enough that he can—do something, but his hands are shaking and he’s fumbling everything—

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Armitage says. “Here, why don’t you watch me?”

“Can I?” Kylo asks stupidly.

“Of course you can,” Armitage purrs. He hooks his thumbs in his briefs, and then pushes them down, leans forward and kisses Kylo while he pulls them the rest of the way off. His cock is hard and red, wet at the tip. “It won’t take long,” Armitage says. “Looking at pictures of you most of the damn day—you were so good for me—I’ve been hard most of the day—you were so—oh, you were everything and you didn’t even know—”

“Did you want to come on me?” Kylo asks. He remembers the first time he came on Armitage, how Armitage had begged for it, moaned when it had happened, like there was something good about being covered in Kylo’s come and Kylo totally gets it now, because he can’t stop staring at Armitage’s dick and he wants to watch Armitage touch himself, wants to watch so badly—

“God yes,” Armitage groans, and he tugs at his balls with one hand, strokes himself off with the other. “Where do you want—”

“On my chest,” Kylo says. “Come—come sit on my chest again, and—on my pecs—”

“Let me rut on you,” Armitage says, straddling Kylo and placing one of his hands flat over Kylo’s nipple. His face is flushed and so is his chest, and he’s staring at Kylo as he touches his cock.

“Yeah,” Kylo says breathlessly. The starstruck feeling Armitage had given him is starting to retreat, a little, and Kylo can finally think again, can finally pay attention. He brings his hands down and steadies Armitage’s calves as Armitage leans forward, drags his dick across the come spattered on Kylo’s chest.

Armitage groans, presses the flat of his palm over his dick, and thrusts, rutting between Kylo’s chest and the palm of his hand. After a few strokes, he ducks his head, spits quickly onto his palm and drags it down the length of his dick. His hair is hanging loose over his eyes, and he’s watching his dick move between Kylo’s pecs.

After a few thrusts, Kylo figures out that it’ll be easier for Armitage to do it if he brings his biceps up, does his best to push his pecs together so that Armitage has something to work with. Armitage is moaning, the sound getting higher and higher pitched, his breath erratic as he gasps and thrusts against Kylo.

“I love you,” Kylo blurts out, and Armitage moans and comes, collapses forward onto Kylo, panting against his neck as his come makes a mess between their bodies.

“Fuck,” Armitage slurs after a few minutes. He shifts like he’s planning on getting up, but doesn’t end up going anywhere, just unsticks some of the various parts of his body off of Kylo, just in order to re-stick them somewhere else, finally settling against Kylo’s chest and tracing the remnants of the marks from earlier. There’s a faint tremor in his fingers that he isn’t making an effort to hide.

“How are you feeling?” Kylo asks.

“Good,” Armitage says slowly. “I’m feeling…yeah. Good. How are, uh. Shit.” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, nuzzles into Kylo’s neck. “H-how are you feeling?”

“Good,” Kylo says. “Messy,” he adds, after a moment—a moment where he is excruciatingly conscious of the come drying on his chest, the sweat blossoming on his body, and the slickness of the lube between his ass cheeks.

“I’ll pour a bath,” Armitage says. “Get you all cleaned up. Least I could do.”

“Don’t rush.”

“Mmm,” Armitage says vaguely, and he nuzzles into Kylo’s neck.

 

“This is all…elbows, and knees. We should move into a new place, with a bigger tub. ”

“Don’t, Kylo.”

“Armitage?”

“…sorry.”

 

Kylo falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow—and he wakes, disoriented, in the middle of the night to stifled noises from beside him.

“…Armitage?”

The noises stop.

Kylo blearily opens his eyes, props himself up on his elbows. The room is mostly dark, except for the streetlights, and the beam of Armitage’s laptop, lighting his face—and his face is awful, splotched and drawn.

“Armitage,” Kylo says, sitting up and reaching out to touch his thigh. “Are you okay?”

Armitage exhales heavily. Stills.

“Armitage?”

“…it’s a lot,” Armitage says finally. “Everything is just—it’s a lot. I don’t—I can’t—”

Kylo shuffles up until he’s leaning against Armitage’s shoulder, squints at the laptop screen. “Not the thesis photos?”

“Oh god,” Armitage says, his voice cracking. “No, it’s not—I can’t—I can’t use those.”

Kylo frowns. “Why not?”

“…too intimate. Spent all day editing, and it’s just—too much.”

Kylo curses under his breath. “Fuck, I should have worn yoga pants like you said, I didn’t mean to ruin—”

“No,” Armitage says quickly. “No, no, it’s not—it’s not you. You look gorgeous in them. It’s the—it’s the—it’s just…it’s too much. The intimacy is just—and I keep thinking about…the inheritance, and the contract…”

“I look gorgeous?” Kylo asks.

Armitage makes a small sound that doesn’t quite escape his mouth.

“No, I’m being serious,” Kylo says, snuggling in closer to Armitage. “I mean, after, like, a couple minutes of hanging upside down, all I was really conscious of was all the blood rushing to my head.” His cheeks are warm as he realizes what he said immediately after he said it, and he waits for Armitage to make a snarky remark about Kylo’s dick—and then Kylo can try to flirt back with him—and then—

“So am I,” Armitage says softly. “I can’t use the photos, Kylo. Please don’t ask me—”

“Hey,” Kylo says, turning his face and pressing his lips against the sleeve of Armitage’s t-shirt. “I’m not asking you to do anything, okay?”

They sit there in silence. Kylo tries to figure out what to say—it’s obvious that Armitage is bouncing back from something, but he doesn’t know what, and when he doesn’t know what, he’s not entirely certain how to fix it—

“Anyway,” Armitage says. “You should look at this. You’d like it.”

Kylo turns back to the laptop, squints at it. It’s a photo of a crowd of people, standing at the edge of a river, the guardrail keeping them from the water—

“ _Reliquary_ ,” Armitage says. “Took this crowd shot from the bridge when the cops weren’t looking. Do you see?”

Kylo shakes his head, moves his hand up Armitage’s thigh. “I was just wondering if you were—”

“Right there,” Armitage says. He reaches forward with his forefinger and thumb touching, pinch-zooms the image on his laptop, and then points.

(The engagement ring is dark against his hand.)

“Found you,” Armitage says, voice cracking. “Found you, Kylo.”

Kylo leans in a little closer to the laptop, looks—and there he is, almost cut off of the photo frame. His ears are sticking out, his hair is too short, and he hasn’t grown into his body yet, still scrawny and awkward-looking. “Oh, hell,” he breathes. “I didn’t know you were taking pictures.”

“Of course,” Armitage starts, and then he hiccups, swallows, falls silent.

“It’s been a long day,” Kylo offers. “Do you wanna just—go to bed?”

Armitage hesitates, and then nods, closing his laptop and rolling over to slide it onto the shelf in his end table.

(He looks even more miserable, somehow, once he’s taken off his glasses.)

“If it wasn’t my dick,” Kylo says softly, “what was it? What was too intimate? Why can’t the photos be for your thesis?”

“It’s just too much,” Armitage says stiffly. He crosses his arms over his chest, burrows down into the covers and then pulls them up by his ears. “I wouldn’t expect—I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Kylo swallows. Waits.

“Armitage?”

“What,” Armitage snaps.

“Do you wanna—do you wanna lie on my chest?”

Armitage doesn’t say anything for a long while—and then there’s a rustle of blankets, and Armitage’s body is pressed up against Kylo’s, his ear on Kylo’s chest.

“Thank you,” Kylo says softly.

Armitage sniffs, once, and then is quiet.

 

Armitage is still asleep when Kylo wakes up the next morning. Kylo gets dressed quietly, pours Millie’s food as quietly as possible so he doesn’t risk waking Armitage up. In the dim morning light, Armitage looks bleary and restless, and it’s likely he hasn’t been asleep for long, so the more sleep he can get, the better.

(Kylo, shockingly, slept better than unusual, and feels rested.)

On his way out of the apartment, Kylo grabs his calligraphy pen, and adds more entries to the list.

_13\. Fingering, Kylo bottoming._

_14\. Intercourse, Kylo bottoming._

_15\. Armitage’s choice._

_16._

_17._

_18._

_19._

_20._

(He’s going to need more paper.)

He closes the door as quietly as he can behind him, and heads to the main library to work on papers.

He’s going to focus today. He’s going to give Armitage space.

(He’s going to kneel in front of Armitage tonight, and suck his cock.)

 

He doesn’t get a chance to suck Armitage’s cock—the apartment is empty except for Millie when Kylo gets home, and a quick text to Armitage confirms—after four hours—that he’s working on his thesis.

Kylo wrinkles his nose at his phone, and then wrinkles his nose at himself in the mirror. He masturbates in the shower, just for the novelty of it—and because he tried to start on the bed, and Millie wouldn’t stop _staring_ at him.

Afterwards, he texts Armitage a selfie—everything between his lips and his bellybutton, but nothing any lower than that.

He’d send more if Armitage asked—but it’s radio silence, so Kylo rolls over, and falls asleep.

 

The first time Kylo’s phone vibrates in class, he ignores it. And he ignores the second time as well.

The third time it vibrates, Kylo inches it out of his pocket long enough to read the call display. _Resistance (work)_.

He grabs his bag and ditches the lecture, ignoring everyone’s stares as he escapes into the hallway. “Armitage?”

There’s a heavy sigh on the end of the line.

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” Poe says, but his voice is flat and tight. “Have you seen Hux?”

Kylo’s stomach does a long, slow flip. “He’s pretty busy with his thesis right now.”

“No, like, in the last hour.”

“I’m in class—”

“He literally showed up for his shift this morning, was in the building for less than thirty seconds, and then turned around and left again. He hasn’t been back. I was hoping you knew—”

“I don’t,” Kylo says, anxiety immediately ramping up. He’s in the arts building. It’ll be quickest to check Armitage’s studio first, it’ll be quickest to just—look there before he goes home, and he’s already mentally running through the route that Armitage usually takes when he’s walking, just in case something bad has happened. Just in case it’s—his father, or a medical emergency, or—

“Well, if you see him—”

“It’s been _hours_ ,” Kylo snaps. “You either should have called me right away, or not at all. You can’t just—half-ass this.”

“I…”

“Bye,” Kylo says. He hangs up, stares at his phone a moment. Starts typing in a text message— _Hey, Armitage, I was just wondering if_ —before he gives up on subtlety entirely and just dials Armitage’s number.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly the moment Armitage picks up. “Are you okay?”

Silence on the other end of the line, before a long exhalation.

“Armitage?”

“I’m…” Armitage says—and then he falls silent again.

“You’re not okay,” Kylo says. “Fuck, you should have said something earlier. I should have noticed earlier. Fuck, Armitage.”

“I haven’t…”

“Bala-Tik’s?” Kylo guesses. He hesitates, lets people walk around him, standing still trying to decide if he’s going right, to Armitage’s studio, or left, to leave campus and get to Bala-Tik’s as fast as he can—

Armitage laughs, and it sounds like it’s coming out of a synthesizer.

_Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha._

“I’m sober,” Armitage says. “That’s pretty ridiculous, huh? That—that _this_ happens, and it doesn’t even occur to me until you mention it that I should be drinking?”

His studio. Kylo turns right and starts running, his backpack swinging awkwardly as he rounds corners, and people (finally, thankfully) moving the hell out of his way. He takes the stairs two at a time to get up to the second floor. “Are you at home or at your studio?”

“I’m,” Armitage says. “I’ll be home, I’m just—”

And then Kylo rounds the corner of the hall and sees him. Armitage, in the flesh. He’s got his greatcoat draped around his shoulders even though it’s hotter than hell outside.

“Armitage,” Kylo says.

Armitage jerks, looks up at him. His face is splotched and his eyes are wide. His hand twitches as he straightens, and he fumbles his phone. When he bends to pick it up, the door to his studio opens and a large orange blur darts out, takes off toward Kylo.

It takes Kylo three steps to close the distance, snap Millie up around her middle and pull her into his chest as she yowls in his ear, digs her claws into his hoodie, and by the time Kylo has her settled—one hand around her rear, one hand on her back—he’s figured out enough to feel absolutely sick.

Armitage takes two steps toward him, and then stops. He’s worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. His eyes are red.

“Why?” Kylo asks. His stomach is a ball of acid. His knees are going to give out.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Armitage says softly. “You’re in class.”

“Poe called,” Kylo says.

Armitage’s face changes so quickly—his lips tighten, and his posture pulls up, his face going pale. “That meddling _fuck_ ,” he snaps. “Couldn’t goddamn leave well enough alone, had to fuck me over one more time—”

“You fucked _yourself_ over,” Kylo yells. His voice echoes down the hallway. “Whatever the fuck this is—”

He knows exactly what this is. He knows exactly what this is, and being angry is the only thing that’s keeping him from crying right now.

“—you did this to yourself.”

Armitage stares at him. His mouth is hanging open, and Kylo can see blood on his lower lip.

“You did this to yourself,” Kylo repeats stubbornly.

Armitage inhales—and then suddenly sags, bracing himself on the wall.

“Do you,” Kylo says, softly now, all the anger running out of him like he’s a sieve, and the holes are too big to hold onto anything. “Do you want Millie?”

Armitage shuts his eyes, nods. Extends his arms out in front of him.

Kylo walks over, carefully deposits Millie into Armitage’s arms. Millie yowls, shifts around in Armitage’s arms until she’s hanging halfway over his shoulder, her tail flicking in his face.

“I suppose,” Armitage says dully, “you’d better come in.” His eyes are wet, and he blinks rapidly—the same thing he always does when he’s trying to keep from crying, except it’s not working this time, just the same as it never works any other time—and this time, the agony of watching Armitage’s face makes Kylo’s own eyes sting.

_I don’t want to come in_ , Kylo thinks—but he nods anyway, follows Armitage into his studio, and shuts the door behind both of them.

 

If Kylo hadn’t known before—he knows now.

The last time he was in here, the room was completely empty—just Armitage’s drafting table, his laptop, a stool, and _Starkiller_ , hanging from the ceiling.

Now _Starkiller_ is in pieces on the flattened drafting table, the innards of it strewn all over the entire surface. The plastic bins Armitage had used to move are in here, now, stacked up in piles against the wall. _Starkiller 2.0_ is up here, now, taking up the majority of the space. Armitage’s button-up shirts are draped over it, but Kylo can still see the shape of it underneath.

Millie’s litterbox is in the corner.

Kylo’s stomach twists. “You’re leaving me,” he says.

Armitage flinches, but doesn’t deny it.

“You’re leaving me,” Kylo repeats. As though the words will be easier to say on a second repetition.

“It’s not you,” Armitage says quietly. “Kylo, please—it’s not you.”

“We’re the only two in this,” Kylo says. “It’s just you and me.”

“It’s me,” Armitage says brokenly. “I can’t—I can’t keep going.”

Kylo’s ears are ringing. His stomach is falling out of his body, and everything is echoing strangely. The studio is too small, and there’s not enough space to breathe. If this keeps up, Kylo isn’t going to be okay anymore.

(Kylo isn’t okay _now_.)

“Not with the way we started,” Armitage says. He bends, sets Millie down on the floor. Straightens, and wraps his arms around his torso. “We started—on false pretences—and I couldn’t stop myself from lying to you—”

“I don’t care,” Kylo says.

“—and I can’t stop myself from lying to you now, so there’s nothing to say that this won’t get—worse and worse and worse and—”

“I don’t care,” Kylo repeats.

“That doesn’t matter to me,” Armitage snaps, face drawn and mouth tight. “I fucking care, Kylo. I care.” He runs his hand back through his hair. “Every time I look at you, I just—I think about it all over again. And sometimes I can forget—I used to be able to forget for weeks at a time. And then it was days. And then it was hours. And now, it’s—it’s every time I look at you, Kylo. When we were—on Saturday—I don’t deserve that kind of devotion from you. I don’t deserve that kind of devotion from anyone.”

“Give me a chance,” Kylo says.

“It’s not your chances that matter,” Armitage says. “It’s mine. I never should have said yes to this.”

“You’ve said yes to everything so far,” Kylo says. His voice cracks. “Armitage, I’ve asked—I’ve asked—and you’ve said yes.”

“I’m saying no now,” Armitage says. “No, Kylo.”

Kylo can’t breathe.

Armitage shuts his eyes a moment, sways on his feet. “You weren’t supposed to come here,” he says. “I was going to meet you at ho—at your apartment. We were going to talk it out there.”

“How kind of you,” Kylo says. “To break up with me in my own apartment. That’s where we _liv_ e _,_ Hux, that’s where we _live_.” Kylo stops talking, swallows hard. “Armitage,” he says after a moment. “That’s where we live, Armitage.”

“No,” Armitage says. “It’s your apartment. It’s where you live.” He inhales, shuts his eyes again, keeps talking. “I lied to you every chance I could get. And when I wasn’t lying, I was leaving things out. I lied about the inheritance. I lied about looking at the contract. I didn’t prepare you for—I just—I just—I just keep doing this, and I have a hell of a time saying no to you, Kylo—but I’m saying no now. You—you deserve better than this.” He wraps his arms tighter around his chest. “You deserve better than me.”

Kylo takes a deep breath, and then another. He doesn’t respond.

(He _can’t_ respond.)

“You’re not contradicting me,” Armitage says, and he’s smiling, but his eyes are wet. “Always told you that you were smart, Kylo. I always knew that you’d figure it out. You deserve better than me.”

“You’re not…you’re not giving me a chance to fix it?” Kylo asks softly.

“There’s no fixing it,” Armitage replies.

“But…”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me for this.” Armitage swallows, swipes at his face with the back of his hand.

“You’re not even giving me a chance,” Kylo says. “You’re not giving us time to work through this. You held onto it for the entire time, and I was—I was willing to just set everything aside, and you’re just—not even trying.” He waits and hopes for Armitage to say something—but Armitage is silent.

Armitage is silent.

Kylo looks down at his hands. “I don’t regret it,” he says. “I don’t, I just—I…” The ring is standing out, so black against his skin. He reaches for it, takes it between the thumb and finger of his right hand, and gives it a tug.

It slides off, and Kylo’s hand is bare.

He looks up, watches as Armitage does the same with his. Kylo wonders if he should take the ring back from Armitage, but he can’t make his feet move—and when Armitage slips his ring into his pocket, it frees Kylo up to do the same, to shove it down into his back pocket, as far as it can go.

 

Kylo doesn’t say anything else. He _can’t_ say anything else.

He just…leaves.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, okay. Yeah. Okay.
> 
> As always, I discuss [things that happened in the chapter over on my blog](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/07/21/dtd-chapter-nineteen-breakdown/). This week, we're talking about foreshadowing as a long game, and also how the rope suspension was the turning point, but not actually the cause, of Armitage sinking like he did. 
> 
> On a lighter note, Poe's events are called A. S. S. -- Art School Suspensions. It's a good thing Armitage isn't involved in them, because he would have torn a strip off Poe for having such a terrible name.


	20. eye of the tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes for Kylo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to deadsy for betas, and valda for copyedits!

_Kylo: and it’s gone he took the list and he took all his stuff and he left the key and he’s just gone and it’s over it’s all over and I can’t_

_Rey: look imma call u k_

_Kylo: don’t fucking call me I’ve been crying for three hours_

_Rey: hold on for like two minutes_

_Rey: gotta duck out of supper_

_Rey: mute ur end._

_Rey: type me ur answers._

_Rey: it’s gonna be ok, Kylo. Promise._

“Ah, Kylo. Come in.”

“I know it’s been a couple of years…since I was here. I thought I was done with therapy, you know? I just was—I was okay for a while.”

“And now you’re not?”

“My boyfriend—my first boyfriend—broke up with me. I’m really…I’m really not.”

“Let’s talk about that. Would you like to start at the beginning, with how the two of you met?”

 

_Rey: so wat u gonna do_

_Rey: now that I’ve convinced u not to be a loser_

_Kylo: I’m just gonna take more classes. Registration is right away._

_Kylo: Not art. I’ll work on, like, a minor. Or something._

_Kylo: I can’t go in that fucking building._

_Kylo: I just keep thinking about it._

_Kylo: I don’t know how I’m supposed to stop thinking about it._

 

“I know I’m at the maximum credits right now. I’m asking you to let me take three more classes.”

“It’s against policy—”

“I know, I know, I just—I really need this right now. I’ll pay for all of it in cash.”

“There are waivers you need to sign in advance. And you’ll need to apply for approval from the Dean, which you may not get.”

“I’ll sign them all. I’ll do it. Thank you, thank you.”

 

“…right, yeah, I should have known that hand-blown stuff was one of a kind. Yeah, I get it. No, it’s not a replacement toy—well, I mean it is—look, it’s complicated, I’ll just—I’ll just order something off the site, yeah, I just…wasn’t thinking. Thanks for your help. Yeah, I’m sure I’ll be able to find something. No problem. Thanks.”

 

“Good work, Kylo.”

“Thanks. Hey, I was just wondering, is Armitage—”

“Stop right there.”

“Phasma.”

“No, Kylo. You do not ask me questions to get information about him. You and I are working together professionally. We are not friends.”

“I just—”

“This is a hard limit. If he wanted to talk to you, he would, and I’ll ban you from the premises if you bring it up again.”

“…okay.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with crying.”

“I never used to do this before. Before him. When I was a kid, I used to just, like—yell and stuff. Drive stupid. And then I went to therapy a bunch, and when I moved here I came to you, and I learned how to deal and I was calm. And now I’m just…I’m like this. I’m a fucking mess. I’m three weeks into the semester, and there’s times I can’t open my mouth in class because my voice won’t hold.”

“Do you think this is a more adaptive coping strategy?”

“I don’t know. It feels worse. I just, like. I think about him and I start—I start tearing up, I can’t—like, that’s not a thing. That can’t be a thing.”

“Why not?”

“I miss being angry. I just want to be in a bar fight, except I keep thinking about…I just don’t want to punch anybody.”

“That’s a good decision.”

“…sometimes I see, like. Red hair across a room, and it just. It just hits me. And I have to leave.”

“How often has that been happening?”

“…every day.”

 

“That was a good session.”

“Thanks, Phasma. Hey, I was just—”

“Second strike.”

“…sorry.”

 

“No, he’s supposed to be doing his thesis exhibition right away. It’s halfway through October. Are you sure it’s not scheduled this semester? Maybe I had the date wrong, is it in November?”

“We have all the thesis exhibitions already booked. There’s nothing scheduled for Armitage Hux.”

“…December?”

“There’s nothing this semester.”

“January?”

“…there’s nothing next semester either.”

“…February?”

 

“Hey, buddy. It’s been ages, how’s things? Midterm schedule okay?”

“Where’s Armitage?”

“…come to the back with me, Kylo.”

“I just need to know where he is.”

“Look—I heard your engagement fell apart, and I’m sorry.”

“I just want to know…”

“I haven’t seen him since the summer.”

“It’s October.”

“He quit without notice, really fucked me over. It was a hell of a shitty summer. I mean, I’m sure your summer was shit too. Are you doing okay? School’s alright?”

“School’s fine.”

“—again?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you dating again? I mean, I know it’s hard to move forward after a significant breakup—but, honestly, I can promise you, you’ll feel a lot better once you’re seeing other people. I mean, you could see about six other people in the time it took you to see Hux, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t. Thanks for nothing, Poe.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you chose to get engaged to an emotionless jerk.”

“…that wasn’t the problem.”

 

“Ren.”

“Look, can you just tell me if you’ve—”

“Your ban starts now. Get the fuck out of my gym.”

 

“Like, how the fuck am I supposed to move forward from this? How do I move on?”

“Let’s recap. It’s been three months since. What do you feel is holding you back?”

“Him! Like, he just—he just left me, and I can’t…”

“…”

“…it’s me, okay? I can’t—I just—I don’t think I can forgive him for leaving, for not giving me a chance, but, like…does it matter?”

“Do you think it matters?”

 

_Rey: how’s therapy_

_Kylo: UGH_

_Kylo: How’s classes?_

_Rey: I am WAY too old for this_

_Rey: they’re all ‘let’s do science!’ and I’m like ‘great’ and they’re like ‘here have some safety equipment and call us over if you need a safety lighter’ and like_

_Rey: I’ve been using matches since I was seven_

_Rey: what the hell is this_

_Rey: where’s my matches_

_Kylo: Rey._

_Rey: anyways I’m coming to the city this weekend_

_Rey: wanna go get awesome haircuts_

_Rey: u can get a depression haircut_

_Rey: and I’m gonna get something cool_

 

“I know I’m being a total wuss about this because you’re running that meeting at Resistance right now and I know you never answer your phone when you’re in meetings, so, uh, hi, Leia. I know it’s been…a couple years, and I never really…fixed anything or made anything right…I’m still in touch with Rey, but you probably know that…anyways…uh…if you wanted to go for coffee or something sometime…my treat…not at Resistance….well, maybe the north end one…I’m back in therapy, some shit kinda went down…apparently I have better ‘perspective’ now…anyways, I was a massive jerk before, and then I just cut everybody off…and I really didn’t understand what having a bad family actually meant, and I was super wrong about that, and…I’m really sorry, Mom. And I’m willing to…to try again if you’re interested, but I get it if you aren’t. Uh, talk to you later. If you want.”

 

_Kylo: Hey Amilyn, it’s Kylo. I left Leia a super rambling phone message today asking her if she wanted to go for coffee or something. If she’s upset tonight, that’s why. Just as a heads-up._

_Rey: the new lighter u got me is super cool_

_Rey: I love it_

_Rey: u doing okay_

_Kylo: I’m ok._

_Kylo: I got let back into my gym today._

_Rey: yay!_

_Rey: u feeling ok?_

_Kylo: It still hurts._

_Rey: lift smaller weights_

_Kylo: The breakup._

_Kylo: It might not stop hurting._

_Rey: okay. A) overdramatic._

_Rey: B) did you wanna just, like._

_Rey: call him?_

_Kylo: No._

_Kylo: He said it couldn’t be fixed._

_Kylo: There’s some space opera movie marathon thing going on here over the weekend._

_Kylo: If your moms will let you and Finn on the bus, I’ll look after you nerds in the city for the weekend._

_Kylo: Movie marathon and pinball?_

_Rey: u gonna come home for christmas?_

_Kylo: Are you gonna bring my poetry book back?_

_Rey: I don’t have it!_

_Kylo: Check your stash._

_Rey: christmas tho_

_Kylo:…_

_Kylo: I don’t know._

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES I titled it that way BECAUSE IT'S A MONTAGE I know. I know.
> 
> Please note the number of chapters has been updated!
> 
> And make sure you read the next chapter, which should be up by the time you get here, before reading the blog post--because the [blog post over here](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/07/26/dtd-chapter-twenty-and-twenty-one-breakdown/) talks about BOTH this chapter, and the one that immediately follows.
> 
> I'm back on my experimental bullshit again. #sorrynotsorry


	21. debridement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes for Armitage as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to deadsy for copyedits, and valda for betas.

“This is Armitage Hux. I’d like to make an appointment for…counselling, or therapy, whatever…I’ve never done this before. Yeah, I’ll hold.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm done with the experimental stuff, I swear.
> 
> It's safe to come [over to the blog post now](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/07/26/dtd-chapter-twenty-and-twenty-one-breakdown/) because it discusses both this chapter and the chapter previous.
> 
> I'm planning for the next chapter to come out this weekend, as per usual, as long as edits go okay!


	22. crocus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo is gonna do it.
> 
> Kylo is gonna text him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to deadsy for betas, and valda for copyedits.
> 
> This is the final stretch of it, y'all--this chapter, and one other. 
> 
> Thank you for being here--I appreciate it more than I could ever possibly express.

_Kylo: I want closure._

_Rey: omg how was ur date_

_Rey:…_

_Rey: u didn’t go_

_Kylo: I’m gonna text him._

_Rey: u just didn’t go_

_Rey: again_

_Kylo: I was at the art department today._

_Kylo: They have everything posted for the new semester._

_Kylo: Finally._

_Kylo: It’s only the middle of January._

_Rey: kylo_

_Rey: why?_

_Kylo: Rey, he’s not even on the list of grad students anymore._

_Kylo: I went upstairs, and they gave his studio space to somebody else._

_Rey: STALKER_

_Rey: also ffs_

_Rey: why didn’t u just go on the date_

_Kylo: Ugh, no._

_Kylo: Not interested._

 

“You have that look,” Phasma says, the minute he approaches her at the front desk. “If I have to ban you again, it’s going to be permanent.”

“No, this is—this is different,” Kylo says.

“You’re telling me this _isn’t_ about Armitage?”

“It’s totally about Armitage,” Kylo says.

Phasma watches him, but doesn’t turn away—so he keeps talking.

“I just wanna know if he’s still here, or if he’s moved away, or dead, or…anything like that.”

Phasma’s eyes widen slightly. “If he’s…”

“If he’s dead,” Kylo repeats. “I’m not gonna ask you any more questions about him, ever, I just—I want to get in touch with him again.”

“You’re going to text him,” she says.

“Yes.”

“You’re not just trying to make yourself feel better by digging around for information on why he’s miserable?”

“Oh god,” Kylo says helplessly. “Is he miserable?”

“You’re coming back for personal training again,” Phasma says, sighing heavily and leaning back against the counter. “Three times a week for six weeks, minimum, and don’t give me any of this ‘I have school’ or ‘my heart is broken’ shit, regardless of what happens.”

“I promise,” Kylo says, hand on his chest. “I swear on everything, Phasma.”

She ticks off points on her fingers. “He’s moved out of my place and I don’t know where to. He isn’t dead. He isn’t injured. He isn’t ill. His number hasn’t changed as of a few days ago.”

“Thank you so much,” Kylo says. “Seriously. Thank you.”

She sighs. “Don’t make me regret this, Ren,” she says—but her voice is a bit warmer than it was.

 

He writes a careful script out. Same green ink that he used on the list—and he hasn’t been able to use the pen for anything _since_ then, but maybe it’ll be lucky for this. (Maybe it’ll doom this. Maybe this isn’t what he needs.)

No—this is _exactly_ what he needs. Either way, he’s going to know.

He just wants to know.

 

_Kylo: I’m doing it._

_Kylo: I’m texting him._

_Rey: kylo_

_Rey: kylo, we talked about this_

_Rey: kylo_

_Rey: kylo_

 

He recopies his script, over and over and over again. Digs through his shoebox, all the notes he wrote, all the things he wanted to say to Armitage and couldn’t. Everything that should have come out of his mouth. Everything that he couldn’t say. Writes it all down on a piece of paper, point by point by point.

Rereads his journal. It documents everything, right from the beginning all the way through to the e—all the way through to where they are now. Absolutely everything he could remember, written by the light of his phone when he couldn’t sleep. His handwriting in August is nearly illegible, although it’s improved steadily since then.

It’s two pm. It’s Friday. He’s skipping class right now. His stomach is in knots, and his legs are unsteady.

 

_Kylo: Armitage. Hi. It’s Kylo._

He waits. For what, he’s not sure. But there’s no response from Armitage, so he keeps going.

 

_Kylo: It’s been four months and twenty-two days since the last time I saw you, and I miss you. I never really stopped thinking about you. The slightest little thing throws me back. Food that you used to make. Beer that you used to drink. Cats. Black button-up shirts. Baggy sweaters. I found that bottle of hot sauce in the back of the fridge the other day, and I was a mess for the rest of the evening._

_Kylo: I was lacking in courage. I was scared to tell you how I felt about you when we were together. I latched onto the fake engagement because it seemed like an easy way to get what I wanted even though I didn’t get what I wanted at all—I just got a facsimile of what I wanted, the appearance of it. It’s not the appearance I was after. It’s never been the appearance I was after._

_Kylo: I thought we had more time, and I thought that we would shift into the thing I actually wanted organically, and I ignored a lot of things going on because I just desperately wanted us to be okay, but we weren’t. You weren’t._

_Kylo: Fuck it._

_Kylo: I wrote you an entire thing, but it doesn’t actually matter._

_Kylo: I miss you, Armitage. I’d like to see you again._

_Kylo: May I see you again?_

He lies back on his bed, stares at the ceiling. He’s not going to go to class, or to the library. He’s just going to have this—one day, one day where he just wallows and thinks about Armitage and feels bad for himself, and then at the end of the day, he’s going to put everything back in his shoebox and close it up and try to move forward. Rearrange his closet so that his clothes are on both sides again. Donate Millicent’s toys to a cat shelter.

(He won’t be able to donate Millie’s toys. He’ll have to hide them somewhere where he can’t find them, instead of leaving them on the floor where he kicks them every time he gets up in the middle of the night to pace around the apartment.)

 

When his phone buzzes, Kylo fumbles it, drops it. Picks it up again and has to swipe it twice because his hands are sweaty and he fumbles the passcode.

(It’s quarter after five. He’s been pacing the apartment since four, trying to avoid the inevitability of knowing that he’s going to have to move back into his own apartment, start taking up the space he had left free for Armitage.)

 

_Armitage: Kylo._

_Armitage: I’ll_

_Armitage: I’ll be at Bala-Tik’s until seven._

_Kylo: I’ll be there._

 

Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit.

He gets to—Kylo gets to see Armitage again. He sits up from the bed, hands shaking. He gets to see Armitage again.

Armitage.

Kylo takes a deep breath, tries to concentrate. He feels shaky all over, and it’s all he can do not to just pull on his pants and run over there now, but he knows how particular Armitage is about appearances, and every other time he’s made an attempt, Armitage has appreciated it—and he’s damn well going to make an attempt now.

He shaves at the sink, staring at himself in the mirror and trying to figure out if Armitage will still like him. He hasn’t been sleeping all that well, so he kinda looks like shit around the eyes, but his hair is good. (Better, now, with the undercut than it was before, and less weight on the back of his neck.)

In the shower, he carefully opens the bottle, and puts a little bit of water in. Shakes it around, and ekes the last of Armitage’s shower gel out into his palms.

_This is going to be lucky_ , he thinks, running his hands down his body.

This _has_ to be lucky.

(He gets to see Armitage!)

Kylo’s legs are still wet when he pulls on his jeans, and he has to jump up and down in the middle of his apartment to try to get them up. He yanks on a tight black tank top, throws his black hoodie with the red trim on over it, and pulls his hair back into a bun so it fits underneath his fur toque. Toque on, scarf on, shoes on—and out of the apartment at a run, getting down the stairs as fast as he can and taking the back door so he can cut across the parking lot.

If he runs, he can make it there in fifteen minutes—and Kylo Ren is _running_.

 

He skids to a stop in front of Bala-Tik’s, checks his watch. Twenty after six. His feet are fucking freezing—the snow was a foot deep through the park and his shoes weren’t tied tightly enough, so now there’s packed snow slowly soaking his socks, and his toes are numb. He tries to calm himself the fuck down outside the bar—bounces on the balls of his feet for a moment, takes off his toque and fixes his hair and then jams his toque back on again. (Slips his hand inside his hoodie pocket, where the toque that Armitage had given him after the rope suspension has been for the better part of four months. It’s his good luck charm. He has to believe that it is. He has to believe that this is going to work out.)

Kylo touches his left pocket—the new note. He touches his right pocket—the old note.

_Please let this be okay_ , he thinks. _Please let me have the courage to ask for what I want._

That’s all he wants—he just wants to hold it together long enough to ask, and then hold it together long enough to wait for the answer.

He squares his shoulders, pulling himself up to his full height, knocks the snow off his shoes on the side of the building. Takes one more deep breath, and then pushes open the door.

His eyes go immediately to their regular table.

Armitage isn’t there.

Kylo swallows. He takes a few more steps inside, eyes sweeping over the interior of the bar, looking for that flash of red hair, the height, looking for Armitage—but he’s not sitting at any of the tables. He’s not leaning against any of the walls. He’s not sitting at the bar. Kylo brings his phone out, opens it up to make sure.

_I’ll be at Bala-Tik’s until seven._

Kylo’s eyes go to the coat rack where Armitage always left his greatcoat. It’s not there.

There’s only Bala-Tik, in a dirty white shirt and dusty pants, sitting up on top of the bar and swinging his legs while he stares at the game playing on the overhead TV.

It’s only six twenty-three. There’s still thirty-seven minutes until seven. Armitage _has_ to be here.

Kylo sighs heavily, and walks over to the bar. “Hey,” he says.

Bala-Tik doesn’t look up.

“Hey,” Kylo says, a little louder. “Can I get a beer?”

Bala-Tik looks at him, and his eyebrows rise slightly. “Well, well, well,” he says. “That explains a lot.”

He doesn’t make any movements toward actually getting off the bar or getting Kylo a beer.

“Look,” Kylo says. “I’m here to meet Armitage, has he been in yet?”

“Only all day,” Bala-Tik says. “Like normal.”

Kylo frowns. “He’s…smoking out back? In the bathroom? Just show me where his table is, and I’ll—”

Bala-Tik rolls his eyes, gestures to the door that leads back into the kitchen.

“I don’t get it,” Kylo says. He looks back out over the bar, trying to figure out if there’s something he missed. There are new paintings on some of the walls, and the still life with the lemons and the machine gun is out in the main part of the bar now, but he still doesn’t see—

There’s a noise behind him as the swinging door to the kitchen opens, and then a sharp inhalation.

Kylo looks over.

It’s Armitage.

He turns his head quickly so that he’s no longer making eye contact with Kylo. His shoulders are tense, and he’s breathing so heavily Kylo can actually see his chest move, can see Armitage digging his nails into his palms. His hair is longer, hanging loose around his face, and he has a beard now. His skin is sallow, there are dark circles under his eyes, and the light blue sweater he’s wearing is stretched out and unflattering, nipped in at the waist by a black bar apron. He looks ghastly.

Kylo has never been happier to see anyone in his life.

“Armitage,” he says, and he realizes as he says it that he’s absolutely fucked. He’s in love with Armitage right now, this very instant, just as much as he had been the day Armitage left him.

It’s been four months and twenty-two days and a number of hours that Kylo could count if he were so inclined—and absolutely nothing has changed.

Armitage’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t turn.

“You’re working here?” Kylo asks.

Armitage breaks out of his trance, frowns at Kylo. “I told you,” he says tightly. “Bala-Tik’s until seven.”

“I thought you meant…” Kylo swallows. It doesn’t matter. “I’ll just go, and come back? At seven?”

Armitage’s face does something—odd at the mouth, but he turns away from Kylo before Kylo can decipher whether it was a softening or whether it’s a grimace that Armitage is trying to hide.

“He ordered a pint,” Bala-Tik offers from the other end of the bar.

Armitage scowls at Bala-Tik. “Lovely,” he says flatly. He reaches under the counter for a glass, fills it full of beer from a tap Kylo doesn’t recognize. His movements are fluid, precise, and so well-practiced that he doesn’t even need to look at what he’s doing—instead, he stares off into the distance, goes through the motions automatically. His lower lip is drawn back between his teeth, and Kylo can see from here that his lips are chapped and rough. “Here,” Armitage says, sliding the beer across the counter.

“Thank you,” Kylo murmurs.

“Just—” Armitage says.

Kylo looks up.

“Don’t drink it sitting at the bar,” Armitage asks plaintively. “Go somewhere else?”

Kylo nods stupidly, fumbles in his pocket for money.

“Please don’t insult me,” Armitage says. He still hasn’t made direct eye contact with Kylo except for that first inadvertent glance. “Just take your pint over to the far corner.”

“That’s our spot,” Kylo says.

“You think I don’t remember?” Armitage’s voice is so quiet. “Of course I remember. I’ve never stopped thinking about it.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “Take it somewhere else if you need to, Kylo. You don’t have to sit in the corner until seven. You just—you just can’t be at the bar. I’ll—I’ll come get you when I’m done.”

“Okay, Armitage,” Kylo says. He reaches out and takes the beer in his hand. The glass is cold. His feet are still freezing. He can’t stop _staring_ at Armitage.

(He looks so _thin_.)

“I’ll see you at seven,” Kylo says, and then, completely overwhelmed, he retreats.

 

Kylo goes to the back anyway, taking it all in and trying to figure out if anything has changed. The floor is significantly cleaner than it used to be, and the lighting seems to be better—or, at least, there are light bulbs in all the fixtures now. He hesitates as he approaches the table in the back corner—their table—and he just—he can’t do it.

He risks a look over his shoulder, but there’s no point. Bala-Tik is still perched on the bar, watching the game—and Armitage has disappeared again. Kylo swallows, takes a sip of his beer. His stomach immediately twists. Okay. No beer, then.

Kylo just—expected something _different_. Somehow. He knows Armitage wasn’t going to, like, run across the bar and jump into Kylo’s arms, although honestly, Kylo would have died happy if that had happened—it’s just that Armitage looks so _miserable_ and he seems—conflicted about Kylo being here at all.

(He takes his cellphone out of his pocket and looks again. _I’ll be at Bala-Tik’s until seven_ isn’t exactly an acceptance. It’s not enthusiastic. It’s not—it’s just—)

Maybe this was all a mistake. Kylo backs out of his text messages, realizes he has another one unread. It’s from Rey—a screenshot captioned _if ur gonna do this, my earlier messages still apply <3_. Kylo enlarges the screenshot, looks at it.

_Rey: just do it_

_Rey: ask him out_

Kylo smiles in spite of himself, looks back up at the bar. Armitage is back out front now, turning away the moment Kylo looks up—but the flush to his face is rising up past his beard, and Kylo wonders if maybe, just maybe, he has a chance.

He just needs to hold himself together until seven, and then he can ask.

 

He manages to sit at their table for all of seventeen minutes, before it’s too much for him and he has to get up. The beer is still sitting unpleasantly in his stomach—moreso once he realizes that while he didn’t recognize the tap, because Bala-Tik’s never used to carry it, he recognizes the beer itself. It’s one of the organic ones that he started buying after he started working out. He wonders if Armitage remembers, if this is the beer that Armitage drinks, if this is…

Kylo gets up, abandons his beer on the table. (It’ll still be there when Armitage is done, he can drink it when he has Armitage with him.) It’s too much to sit back here—if he faces the wall, all he can think about is Armitage sitting across from him, smoking and playing with the hem of his sweater, slamming back shots or wolfing down the food on his plate.

He takes off his toque, unwraps his scarf, sets them down on the table too. He wants to take off his hoodie—he can feel sweat starting to bead on his lower back, but if he takes his hoodie off now, he’ll lose the chance to let Armitage watch him take off his hoodie later, and he wants to believe—he wants to think—he hopes—

(He just wants Armitage to want him back, even if it’s only a little. Even if they start out as friends.)

His socks squelch in his shoes, and his feet are freezing. The snow melted ages ago, and now all Kylo has to show for his run through the park is wet shoes, wet socks, and cold feet. He looks back at the bar—and Armitage has his back turned, head tipped to the side strangely until Kylo realizes he’s actually using a corded phone, cradling the headset between his shoulder and his bearded face, the cord trailing back to the cradle on the wall.

(Goddamn, that beard looks good on him, and his hair is so _long_. It’s brushing the edges of his jaw.)

Kylo checks his phone. It’s less than fifteen minutes to the hour. He probably has time to—wring his socks out in the sink, try to fix his hair so it’s not doing something weird from the toque. Or maybe he’ll just go back there and stare at the stall that he and Armitage had fooled around in, the place where Kylo finally, _finally_ got some indication that Armitage was into him too, the very first place that Armitage let Kylo touch his cock. He can’t help but remember how Armitage looked, kneeling on the bathroom floor, his face pressed up against Kylo’s hip and his hand in his own pants and—

Kylo rounds the corner, starts down the hall to the men’s bathroom—and then stops. There’s a new painting at the end of the hall, illuminated by lights coming from either side, and it’s—it’s—it’s—

Kylo takes a deep breath, goes further down the hall, trying to ignore—trying to ignore how blindsided he feels, how much this fucking _hurts_ , because it’s a still life focused around a dildo, and he—he recognizes it.

It’s the same one Armitage has. Pink and white marbled silicone, shot through with gold veins.

(It _belonged_ to Armitage, only now he’s given it away—)

Kylo blinks back tears as he approaches the painting, holds his fingers out to it even though he knows he’s not going to touch.

(—how could Armitage do that, how could he sell it like that, how could he—)

Kylo stops in front of the painting. It’s not just the dildo. It’s—it’s everything about the painting.

Everything about the painting is so fucking _familiar_.

There’s another dildo behind the pink and white marbled one, covered over with a black cloth with ginger cat hair on it. There’s a remote control for the wireless plug, with the battery compartment empty and wires pulled out of the middle.

A piece of paper on the table, the exact cream colour that Kylo used for the list that used to be on the fridge before it disappeared when Armitage did.

The handwriting on the piece of paper is Kylo’s, but it’s words that he has never written.

_and in short, I was afraid_

On the paper, there is a fountain pen with a green smudge of ink on the tip, and next to it, a mechanical pencil.

They’re tied together with a thin red rope.

Kylo scans the painting for the signature, even though he already knows—and he finds it, a tight spidered hand in the lower left corner of the painting.

_armitage_

 

They’re all signed like that. Every single fucking painting in the bar. The pastoral scenes in the bathroom, the still life with the machine gun, the lemons—and others, too, that he hasn’t seen before. He’s standing in front of a hyper-realistic closeup of a butterfly’s wing pinned to a board, trying to decipher what’s being captured in the reflection on the head of the pin, when he feels pressure against his lower legs.

He looks down, and Millicent glares up at him, and yowls.

“Millie,” Kylo says. He crouches down, and she hisses at him before butting his pocket. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, holding out his hand so she can approach him for pets if she wants to. “You can’t fit in the pocket, there’s a zipper. I would have worn a bunnyhug if I’d known you were here too.”

She flicks her tail up into his face, and then, begrudgingly, butts her head up against his hand for scritches.

“I missed you,” Kylo says softly. “Did you know that he was painting all these? Did you know, I blamed you every single time when my paints were missing? That was stupid, wasn’t it, sweetheart. Yes, it was. It was Armitage the whole time, wasn’t it? Don’t worry, you can tell me. Do you want me to pick you up?”

Millicent purrs, the sound of it rumbling deep in her ribcage, and Kylo picks her up, cradles her against his chest and lets her breathe her little cat breaths into his neck.

“I missed you so much,” he says. “Let’s go look at some more paintings, okay?”

 

He’s back in front of the dildo painting, still holding Millicent and tracing the writing hidden in the folds of the tablecloth, small letters done with an even smaller brush, _time for you and time for me and time yet for a hundred indecisions_ , when he hears footsteps behind him.

“It’s three minutes past seven,” Armitage says.

“You told me you didn’t paint,” Kylo says, taking a step back so that he’s standing beside Armitage. “More than once.”

“I lied,” Armitage says. He rubs his thumb along the side of his beard. “It was embarrassing.”

“I wish you weren’t ashamed of your work,” Kylo says. Millie fidgets in his grip, digging her claws into his shoulder—so he crouches and lets her go, watches her waddle off and head back out to the main part of the bar. “Your paintings are completely bizarre.”

Armitage’s mouth twists.

“I love them,” Kylo says, as clarification, and Armitage flinches and turns away.

“This one is intimate,” Armitage says, finally. “It’s making me uncomfortable to watch you stare at it.”

The candid nature of the statement shocks Kylo, and it takes him a moment to pull himself together to reply.

“I was uncomfortable seeing it,” Kylo admits. “I thought, for a moment, you’d given the dildo to someone else, and they’d—done this with it. I didn’t realize until I saw—the list, and your—your copy of my handwriting—that I realized it was you.” He swallows. His face feels hot.

“Surprise,” Armitage says flatly.

“But these are really fucking good,” Kylo says. “Not just copying my handwriting, though that’s fucking stellar, but, like. The photorealism is just—it’s so good, Armitage. The colours. The vibrancy. I mean, I know I’m just an undergrad…”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Armitage says. He’s looking away again, fingers fidgeting at the hem of his sweater.

“I mean, it’s true,” Kylo says. “I am.” He wants to say more—but he’s distracted, again, by the shadows under Armitage’s eyes, the smear on the left lens of his glasses, like he’d touched it absently and then hadn’t cleaned them since. He wants to ask if Armitage is okay, if he’s truly okay—but that’s not what he’s here for, he’s here for the piece of paper in his left pocket, he’s here for the piece of paper he’d ignored in his right.

“I’m going outside for a smoke,” Armitage says. “I’m done work for the day.”

(When he turns, Kylo can see the lines in the back of his sweater where the tie from his barkeep apron had wrinkled it.)

Armitage gets three steps away from Kylo, before he turns back. “You’re invited,” he says, voice going up at the end like it’s a question.

“Thank you,” Kylo says, and he pulls his hood up over his head, and follows.

 

He accepts the lit cigarette that Armitage offers him, holds it awkwardly between his fingers and lets it burn down, unsmoked. Watches Armitage, standing in the alley with one hand wrapped around his stomach, plucking and pulling at the side of his sweater, and the other holding a cigarette to his lips.

The cherry flares bright red as Armitage inhales, but his exhalation is ragged, the smoke coming out in puffs.

(He looks so fucking miserable that Kylo just wants to gather him up and carry him home.)

Kylo needs to know where to start.

(He knows where to start, he just needs to do it.)

There’s a shadow cast across Armitage’s face from the neighbouring buildings.

“How are—” Kylo starts.

“So I guess—” Armitage says, all in a rush—and then he stops, bites down on his own lip and winces. He takes a quick drag on his cigarette, coughs the smoke out into his arm. “You go ahead,” he says, voice raspy. He drops the butt of his cigarette, reaches to his back pocket where he’d shoved the pack.

Kylo steps forward, extends his hand out to Armitage, unsmoked cigarette still burning between his fingers.

Armitage leans forward as though he’ll take it from Kylo’s fingers with his lips—and then he reaches out his hand and carefully takes the cigarette, not touching Kylo’s fingers at all. He takes a few steps back, away from Kylo, until his back is pressed up against the wall. He smokes his second cigarette in silence, eyes darting back and forth—sometimes down Kylo’s body, but mostly between Kylo’s eyes and his mouth.

“I didn’t think…” Kylo says slowly. “I guess, uh.” He pushes both his hands back through his hair. “I still…”

Armitage turns away. Drops his cigarette on the ground, lets it burn out in the snow. “Look,” he says, still facing away from Kylo. “Do you want to come home with me?”

Kylo’s heart pounds in his chest. “Yes,” he breathes.

Armitage extends his hand.

Kylo steps forward, envelops it in his.

 

Armitage leads him back into the bar, and then into a back corner, through a door that Kylo hadn’t noticed before. Up a flight of stairs. There’s a door at the top, and Armitage fumbles the lock, hands shaking as he tries to get the key in. He needs two hands to open it—one wiggling the key, and one turning the knob—and when the door finally comes undone, Armitage looks back over his shoulder as though he’s not certain Kylo will still be there.

(Kylo will be there forever, cannot possibly go anywhere else.)

The apartment above the bar is dark, messy, and not in any way recognizable as a place that Armitage lives. Armitage leads him past a kitchen that looks nearly unused, a living room full of mismatched, dirty furniture, and down a narrow hallway to another door, padlocked shut. Armitage opens the padlock with another key, pockets the lock, and steps inside.

The bedroom is completely bare of personal possessions. There’s a narrow bed shoved against the wall, sheets tangled, and clothing on the floor. All the walls are bare, and there’s another door, partially open, that appears to lead to a bathroom.

Armitage sits down on the bed, looks at his feet. “Shut the door,” he says, and Kylo obeys.

There’s too much space between them—entirely too much space between them—and Kylo closes that space, kneels in front of the bed. Puts his hands on Armitage’s knees. (Armitage feels cold, even though his pants.) “I missed you,” he says. He can feel the tension in Armitage’s entire body through his legs.

Armitage looks away.

“I thought about you every day,” Kylo says. “I tried to stop. I couldn’t.” He hesitates, and then bends, presses a soft kiss to Armitage’s knee.

Armitage’s knees fall apart, and Kylo presses forward between them, rests his head on Armitage’s thigh and places his arms on either side of Armitage’s legs. After a moment, after he feels Armitage relax into it, he stretches his hands up, rests them on Armitage’s sides.

(He’s so _thin_.)

“We should just fuck,” Armitage says, suddenly, as Kylo is still touching his waist through his sweater. “I shouldn’t have…we should just fuck. Can you just—” He makes a gesture with his hands, and Kylo shuffles back to give him space.

Armitage hikes up his sweater, fumbles with his button, and then pushes his pants down to his ankles, the sweater falling down to cover him to mid-thigh. He awkwardly pulls his pants off his feet, kicks them off to the side. “We should just fuck,” he repeats. His hands go back to the hem of his sweater, pulling and twisting. “I’ll just…keep my shirt on, and…you’d like that, right, you said you missed me?”

“No,” Kylo says. “I mean, yes. Wait, Armitage, I—”

Armitage looks up at him. His mouth is tight and his eyes are red. “I know,” he says softly, his hands tightening into fists. “I know I’m fucking it up already. I know. I just.”

Kylo sits back on his heels, tries to give Armitage some space. “Let me—let me talk?”

Armitage sits back down on the bed, thighs covered by his sweater, but his bony knees and calves exposed. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Kylo swallows. “I still love you, Armitage,” he says. “I know you lied about a bunch of stuff. I said I didn’t care about it at the time, and that wasn’t entirely accurate, because I did care—but I only cared because I wanted you not to feel like you had to do that, you know? I just didn’t want you to feel like that stuff mattered. I wanted you to feel like you were safe with me, and I obviously fucked that up, because you didn’t feel that way—I was too much, or not enough, or not what you needed—but I wanted to try, Armitage, I really wanted to try.” Kylo swallows. “I still want to try.”

Armitage blinks. “You still…”

“I never meant to ask you to marry me,” Kylo says, and he can feel his ears burning. “When I came into the alley. I never—” He reaches down to his pocket, pulls out the thickly folded piece of paper, and hands it over to Armitage. “I had this in my back pocket that day. I just—I don’t know. I didn’t expect you to be so upset, and sometimes I—sometimes I panic under pressure.”

Armitage is holding the folded paper between his fingers, fidgeting at the edges.

“I wrote out a script for today,” Kylo confesses. “Again.” He reaches into his other pocket, pulls it out, opens it up. “I’m so sorry, this makes me look awful, I just—I just wanted to make sure that I didn’t forget anything.” He looks down at the piece of paper, and freezes.

_Hi, Hux. I like you. Will you go out with me?_

“Wrong note,” Kylo breathes softly.

Armitage’s fingers still on the paper that he’s holding. “What’s on the note I’m holding?”

“Everything,” Kylo says honestly. “Everything I wanted to say to you.”

“Oh,” Armitage says.

“You can open it,” Kylo offers. Maybe it’s easier if it’s just all—out in the open. Maybe it’s easier if he just—

“I can’t have everything right now,” Armitage says softly. “Not yet.”

Kylo reaches out and covers Armitage’s hand with his own, closing his hand around it and the paper both, and everything just—stops, for a moment.

It’s just his hand, over Armitage’s.

It’s the seafoam green of Armitage’s eyes.

It’s the brilliant red-gold of his hair.

“Tell me what you wanted to start with,” Armitage says. “In your own words. Not with this.”

“I miss you,” Kylo says. His hand is still on Armitage’s. “I miss you so much.”

Armitage swallows.

“And I—I want you back,” Kylo says. “If you still want me. I miss sharing a bed with you. I miss holding your hand and listening to you gripe about—about whatever is going on. I miss your cooking and how particular you are about laundry and I miss your cat. I just—I tried to move on, but I can’t get closure on what we had because I don’t understand why it fell apart.”

“It fell apart because I lied,” Armitage says. He pulls his hands away from underneath Kylo’s, presses the folded piece of paper into Kylo’s palm and closes Kylo’s fingers around it.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to let me forgive you,” Kylo says finally, tucking the piece of paper back into his pocket, “and that hurts.” He stands up, paces away. “Like—it’s fine. If you don’t. If you don’t want to anymore. I can get over it. It’s just—it hurts that you didn’t give me a chance, and you didn’t give me any credit, and you didn’t give me any time or space to ask for what I wanted—and I would have absolutely given you all those things if I knew you needed them. I would have given you more chances, if you wanted them. I would have given you time and space if you’d asked.” Kylo runs his hands back through his hair.

Armitage’s eyes are squeezed shut, but he’s not saying anything, so Kylo keeps talking.

“I just…I want to date you, Armitage. I want to date you, I want to start over. I want to try again, and I want to take you out for supper and I want to hold your hand and I want to cuddle in next to you at night, and if you need—space, I can make sure you have space, and if I never should have opened my mouth about your thesis, I’ll never open my mouth about your thesis again, and I don’t—I don’t care if you want to do still life work instead of doing installation art, I don’t give a shit if you want to work at some crummy goddamn bar for the rest of your life. I honestly don’t give a shit, but I fucking miss you, and I miss being close with you, and I know I could date other people but I don’t fucking want to.” He stops, takes a deep breath. Tries to modulate the volume of his voice, and can’t. Runs his hand back through his hair again. “I’m sorry if I’m too much, I tried not to be too much, I just—I just miss you _so fucking much_ and I don’t—I can’t—I should just go, if you’re not—if you’re not into this, I can’t stand to—I can’t stand to…I just…I don’t know if you just want to have sex because you’re miserable or if you want to have sex because you still want me, do you still—” Kylo swallows, hard.

Squeezes his eyes shut, and then forces them open.

“Do you still want me, Armitage?”

Armitage exhales heavily, looks down at his hands. “That’s the, uh. That’s the thing,” he says softly. He looks up at Kylo, eyes red. “I do,” Armitage says. “I do still want you. As it turns out, I want you—quite a bit.” He fidgets with the hem again, tugs at it to stretch it out over his bare knees before letting the fabric go. “As it turns out,” Armitage says, “I love you, Kylo.”

Kylo blinks.

“I’m in love with you,” Armitage repeats. “Kylo. With you.”

“…how long?” Kylo asks, his voice cracking awkwardly on the last word.

“The whole time,” Armitage says miserably.

“Really?”

“No,” Armitage says. “Yes,” he adds, after a moment. “I don’t fucking know,” he finally says, twisting his sweater between his fingers. “Now, though,” he says miserably. “Now, for sure.”

“…are you okay?” Kylo asks.

“No,” Armitage says, trying and failing to stifle a sob. “It’s so much, all the time. It’s just—do you feel like this? Is it always…like this?”

“It’ll be okay,” Kylo says automatically, because he can’t put any other words together, still absolutely stunned by Armitage’s confession. _Now, for sure._

“I can’t—I can’t differentiate between the two things you asked me,” Armitage says. “I just—I don’t know. It’s both.” He takes off his glasses, brings up his arm and drags the sleeve of his sweater across his eyes before he puts his glasses back on. “I’m fucking miserable,” he continues. “I think I would feel better if I just got off, because there’s no way an orgasm would make me feel worse at this point—but also, you came into the bar today and it was like the air just…right out of my lungs, and I couldn’t breathe for how much I missed you, and wanted you, and…and the other thing.”

“Love,” Kylo says softly.

Armitage exhales heavily, looks down at his hands. “Yes, that,” he says. His hands tighten on the hem of his sweater, and his mouth contracts into a thin line. “Do you want to see something horrible?”

“Anything,” Kylo breathes, because he will look at whatever Armitage wants to show him, for the entire rest of his goddamn life. Because the knowledge of Armitage’s love—the admittance of Armitage’s love—is like a balm Kylo didn’t know that he needed, and now the rawness that has permeated his entire being since Armitage broke up with him feels like frostbite that is starting to thaw out, like a wound that has started to scar over, like the first growth coming up out of the snow after a long, cold winter—

“Look,” Armitage says, and he lifts up his sweater, exposes his bare chest to Kylo.

He’s wearing the engagement ring that Kylo gave him on a chain around his neck.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Okay, then.
> 
> There's a breakdown of some of the things going on [over here on my blog](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/07/28/dtd-chapter-twenty-two-breakdown/), so swing over there to check it out if you're so inclined.
> 
> And feel free to send me asks or anything over on tumblr--I'm never sure if I'm hitting on the 'right' things in the blog entries, and am more than happy to expand on anything if needed.


	23. closure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some talking happens, and then also some listening, and then also some things that are neither talking nor listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my infinite thanks to deadsy and valda, without whom this work would not be possible.
> 
> There's some new-to-DTD sex acts in this chapter--so jump to the bottom for more info if you'd like. I've done my best to relate the acts themselves without spoilering any of the plot.

Armitage is sitting on the bed with his sweater pulled up and his nipples tightening because it’s too fucking cold up here, it’s always so goddamn fucking _cold_ up here and that thrice-damned ring is just sitting on his chest, exposed, and Kylo doesn’t even have the decency to say anything.

Armitage can’t make his hands unclench. He should put his shirt down.

He can’t move.

(Kylo is looking at him, and isn’t that just what you wanted, Armitage, isn’t that just what you—

(Kylo is looking at his phone.)

Scowling, Armitage lets his sweater drop, tugs the sheets from the bed over his thighs to cover them too. Stupid, the whole thing is stupid, he never should have—he can’t—this was all a mistake, this was—

Kylo shoves his phone in front of Armitage’s face, presses it into his hand. “This is why,” he blurts. “I’m not—it’s the only reason that it’s not—”

Armitage stares at the phone, blinking.

“With me,” Kylo finishes. “It’s at home.”

It’s a photograph of a small ceramic cat, a figurine. The cat is bright orange, grinning, with its tail up in the air, and Kylo’s—

—Kylo’s engagement ring is hanging from the end of the tail. One of Millie’s cat toys is next to it, and the entire thing—cat, ring, and toy—is sitting on top of Kylo’s end table.

“First thing I see in the morning,” Kylo says softly. “I was, uh. I was scared that I would lose it, and it didn’t feel right to wear it anymore, but I couldn’t put it away or get rid of it, so I just…left it there.”

“Where the hell did you find a ring holder that looks like my cat?” Armitage asks.

“Online,” Kylo says. “I mean. I miss your cat too. I have to paint in peace and quiet now instead of having her scream at me, and it’s kind of…it’s kind of awful, Armitage.” His mouth twists.

Armitage is watching Kylo, and Kylo’s eyes are wet. He immediately looks away, back to the phone, but there’s nothing he can do. He’s stuck. He can’t bring himself to flip through any of Kylo’s photos in case he sees something he doesn’t want to see—like any indication that Kylo has gone on and had a life without him, although, obviously, that’s exactly what Kylo should have done—but he hasn’t, has he, because he’s here.

Kylo is _here_ , standing in Armitage’s shitty small bedroom, shifting from foot to foot, with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. He’s wearing dark jeans, tight across his thighs, and a black hoodie with red accents. The hoodie is new, but the jeans are familiar. They’re the same ones he wore that day at the coffeeshop, when Kylo had showed up to help him move in. (They’re the same ones Kylo wore when he proposed, on his knees in Armitage’s studio, fumbling for the ring he’d dropped under the table. Fucking gorgeous, like always.) He’s broader across the shoulders than Armitage remembers him being, and his hair is different now—the top layers of it long, and pulled back from his face, the bottom half of it shaved off entirely so that Armitage could reach out and feel Kylo’s skull through his skin—

“The whole thing has been awful,” Kylo says, in that odd uneven intonation of his. “I didn’t want any of this.”

“Well, it’s not like I wanted this either,” Armitage says. He sets Kylo’s phone down on the bed, and, with nothing else to occupy his hand, it goes immediately to his neck, tugging at the chain.

“You broke up with me,” Kylo says. “I thought this was _exactly_ what you wanted.”

Armitage forces himself to look. To look at the unshed tears in Kylo’s eyes, the pout of his lower lip. To listen to the ragged exhale of Kylo’s breath.

(They’re far enough apart that Armitage can’t feel Kylo’s exhalation on his skin, and he hates it.)

“I had to,” Armitage says. “I couldn’t get away from the way we started.” Still can’t, but that’s none of Kylo’s business—it’s been countless therapy appointments, and there’s nothing to show for it except the horrible beginnings of self-awareness, and he hates it. He’s not magically functional. He’s not _better_. He’s just as fucked up now as he’s always been, except somehow it’s worse because he can see himself doing it, like a slow-motion train wreck right in front of him, eyes pinned open so he can’t look away.

“You could have just said something,” Kylo says. “About how much it was bothering you.”

“No,” Armitage snaps, “I couldn’t have.” He stands up, letting the sheets fall to the ground, and jabs his finger at Kylo’s stupid broad chest. “You’ve always done exactly what I wanted. You would have—you would have just folded and done what I wanted this time too.”

“Yeah,” Kylo says stubbornly. “I would have. And then I wouldn’t have felt like this for the last four and a half months, and you wouldn’t have—done whatever the fuck you’ve been doing. You look like shit, Armitage, you look fucking miserable.”

“I’m happy,” Armitage snaps.

“ _Liar_ ,” Kylo yells, and then they’re on each other, bodies pressed together so tightly that there isn’t an inch of space between them.

Kylo’s lips are against his, and Kylo is pushing him back onto the bed and his tongue is in Armitage’s mouth and Kylo’s nose is in the way because his nose is fucking always in the way. Armitage accidentally catches Kylo’s lip with his teeth and Kylo gasps. Armitage does it again on purpose, bites down just hard enough for Kylo to feel it, and Kylo inhales sharply against Armitage’s mouth and puts his hands in Armitage’s hair, and Armitage reaches up to grab at Kylo’s in return. The long bits of his hair are pulled into a bun at the back of his head, and Armitage jabs his fingers into it, searches until he finds the tie and then _pulls_ and he’s got one hand in the glorious loose waves of Kylo’s hair, and one hand clamped around the back of Kylo’s head, the bristles of Kylo’s undercut prickling against his palm, and Kylo’s lips are just so _good_ , they’re just so _good_ and—

Kylo turns his head, latches onto Armitage’s neck and starts kissing him there, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin and laving at Armitage’s neck with his tongue. He’s got one hand burrowed underneath them cradling Armitage’s upper back, and the other moving irregularly in Armitage’s hair, and Armitage gasps. Kylo is so solid and heavy that it feels like he may actually crush Armitage, sink him right through the mattress into the floor and that’s fine, and that’s just fine, let Kylo crush him, let Kylo—

“Fucking—fucking take these off,” Kylo grunts. “Sweater. Underwear. Get it off, Armitage, get it off. I want to—holy fuck, you’re so—can you just—I want to see, Armitage, I—I—I, fuck, holy fuck, I—”

“You first,” Armitage says, voice rasping and hoarse from the cigarettes he’s been chain-smoking, and he knows Kylo’s going to hate it, knows that he should keep his face away from him because Kylo will be able to smell cigarettes on his breath, but he just can’t stay away from him now that they’re close, can’t stop himself from panting against Kylo’s cheek. He turns his head, nips at Kylo’s ear, swirls his tongue around—

“Fuck, don’t you dare make me,” Kylo hisses, and he rolls to the side and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He’s panting, breathing heavily, hardon clearly visible through his jeans, pointed down his leg, a wet spot visible where the head of his cock is trapped against his thigh.

Armitage’s mouth is dry just looking at him. It would be easy enough to finish Kylo off right now, just lean over and mouth at him through his jeans, press against him with the palm of his hand—but Armitage just sits up, pulls the hem of his sweater down to cover his own cock, and runs his hand back through his hair, eyes wandering right back to Kylo’s body.

It’s a _distinct_ wet spot.

“Did you—”

“I’m trying not to,” Kylo says through gritted teeth.

“If you squeeze the base of your—”

“If you say the word,” Kylo says tightly, “I will come. Absolutely do not talk right now, Armitage, please.”

Armitage shrugs, and leans back against the wall, pulling the blanket over his lap, tucking his legs up underneath him. His cigarettes are in the back pocket of his pants, and his pants are—probably under the bed, or some shit, which is really unfortunate, because he would desperately like a smoke right now. Kylo Ren is in his bed, in his shitty narrow awful bed, and—and now they’re going to have to _talk_ , and Armitage isn’t ready for that yet.

His hand keeps going to the ring on the chain around his neck, keeps touching it through his sweater.

“I thought for sure you were going to come,” Armitage says, once Kylo’s breathing evens out.

“It wouldn’t have taken much,” Kylo says ruefully. “It still—it still might not take much.”

“I’ve always liked that about you,” Armitage says.

“I’m still sorry,” Kylo says insistently. “I wanted—to be less clumsy than that.” He sits up, bed creaking alarmingly as his weight shifts. Reaches down to adjust himself through his jeans, and frowns as his palm brushes the wet spot. “I just…I wanted…”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you and Poe break up?” Kylo says abruptly.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Kylo says. “I just—I want to know why. I was at Resistance…and, I just—there’s. He said some stuff, and I just…”

“I imagine he told you I was emotionally unavailable,” Armitage says. “Lord knows he told me that fairly regularly, did you get the patented Poe Dameron lecture about the bullet you dodged, or did he just try to scrape you up off the sidewalk and into his bed?”

“Ew,” Kylo says, nose wrinkling. “And you’re not emotionally unavailable, what the fuck.”

“I am—”

“You’ve never been with me.”

Armitage swallows. “You’ve never—you’ve never minded any of the ways I was weird.”

Kylo’s eyebrows shoot up, and he laughs. “You were never weird,” he says finally. “I was always the weird one. Do you know how embarrassing it was for me when we started—when we started fucking? It was awful.”

“I liked it,” Armitage says quietly. There are a lot of things that he liked… _likes_ about Kylo, really. He likes Kylo’s hands, for one, and that habit he has of ducking his head when he’s self-conscious. The way he gets really enthusiastic about the strangest things, the way he—

“So…” Kylo says. “Was it…the edging thing?”

Armitage freezes. “How did you know about that?”

“I figured it out,” Kylo says, his ears starting to go red again. “After. Not at the time. If I’d known at the time, I would have been…better in bed for you, but I didn’t really…get it at first. Not until I looked back at my journals. It all made sense after a while.”

“It’s fine,” Armitage says. “And I never—it didn’t need to be about me, it was—”

“I _wanted_ it to be about you,” Kylo says. “I just…it took me so long to do everything.”

“It never took you long to—”

“No,” Kylo snaps. “Not the sex. The list.” He stands up, drags his hand back through his hair, paces back to the door. “I just—I thought if I just dragged it out for a couple more months, I thought I would—get up the courage to actually talk to you about it. About making it real.”

“Oh,” Armitage says. He swallows. “I didn’t know…that’s what you wanted.”

(It makes sense, in retrospect, looking back at everything—because Kylo never referred to it as fake, and Kylo never acted like it was inevitably going to end, and Kylo never…Kylo never…but how the fuck was Armitage supposed to have _believed_ that? How is he supposed to believe it now?)

“Well, I did,” Kylo snaps. “I do. I—I was fucking trying, Armitage. I was trying so hard. I was—didn’t you notice I was paying attention to what you wanted and needed, and shifting my schedule and my habits and making room for you, and trying to be a good partner, and you—you thought I didn’t _want_ that, you thought I didn’t want it to be real?”

“I thought you wanted to get _laid_ ,” Armitage retorts. “It’s not like you put ‘have a boyfriend’ on your fucking list, now, did you?”

“I fucking would have if I thought it would have helped!” Kylo yells.

“Maybe you _should_ have.”

“Maybe I _will_ ,” Kylo says darkly. “I’ll fucking nail it to this shitty fucking door, except the door’s probably going to fall over the minute I take a hammer to it.”

“We don’t all have trust fund apartments, Kylo.” Armitage swallows, tries to get his voice back under control. “Anyway, you can’t just—show up and offer that back to me again.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t,” Armitage snaps.

“I want to,” Kylo insists. Fuck, his lips look even better when he pouts. “Look, I came here to—apologize, and then I had…I had a question, and I just…” His voice goes quiet. “I’m fucking this all up, and I really wanted—I really wanted not to fuck this up.”

“…just say what you came to say,” Armitage says dully. He can’t handle this—he can’t handle Kylo—showing up, and then taking it away again, can’t handle having this and then not having it, can’t handle listening to Kylo spill all his feelings out over the floor when he knows damn well that Armitage can’t carry them, as though a bunch of blanket statements about what Kylo _wants_ are going to change anything about what Armitage is capable of _offering_. Armitage can’t do it. He can’t handle going back to the way things were yesterday but can’t handle going back to the way things were in August either, because both times, he’s drowning, both times, he’s not going to get pulled out—

“No,” Kylo says. “I’m just. I’m just gonna wing it. I. Look. You deserved better than what I gave you.”

“Oh, please,” Armitage says. “Don’t get all self-deprecating, it’s inappropriate and uncalled for. If there’s anybody who should be apologizing, it’s me.”

“And?” Kylo asks, tilting his head and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Not a fucking chance,” Armitage says, standing up and gathering his sheet around his waist before padding off to the bathroom for a drink of water. “I’ll be in therapy for a literal year before we’ve even started to touch on the shit I owe you apologies for, and I can’t risk fucking that up.”

The bathroom, somehow, is even colder than the rest of the room. It’s the only perk about living here—he doesn’t have to share it with anyone but Millie, but the floor is always freezing, the tap drips, the water comes out of the shower head rusty for a full five minutes before it clears, and the toilet runs indefinitely if he doesn’t remember to jiggle the handle every time he flushes.

“Wait,” Kylo says, suddenly looming in the door. “Therapy?”

Armitage lets the tap run before filling his pint glass of water. Drinks it back, scowling at the copper-penny-blood taste of it, and then fills the glass again, offers it to Kylo. “So?”

Kylo takes the glass, but doesn’t move to drink anything from it. “I didn’t know you were in therapy.”

“Are you proud of me?” Armitage asks sardonically.

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “Yeah, I am.”

Armitage can feel himself smiling, can feel something warm in his chest, and he turns away, stares at his disgusting shower because he can see Kylo’s reflection in the water-spotted shower door, and looking at Kylo’s reflection is easier than looking directly at him. He hates that he still wants Kylo’s approval. He hates that he _wants_ Kylo to be proud of him, that maybe he wanted Kylo to be proud of him the entire time.

(He hates that he thinks it might be easier to keep going to therapy, if he knew that Kylo saw it as beneficial, because Armitage still sees it as paying someone an exorbitant amount of money to see him at his absolute worst, unable to even describe what he’s feeling but crying anyways.)

“I went back to therapy,” Kylo says. “After you dumped me.”

“Ah.”

Kylo hesitates.

(Armitage watches his reflection in the shower door, turning the pint glass around and around in his hands but not lowering himself to actually drink from it. It’s not like Armitage blames him. The tap water here is fucking disgusting, and it’s better to just have the beer.)

“I bet you wouldn’t have dumped me if I was in therapy while we were together,” Kylo says, all in a rush. “I bet if I’d been in therapy, I could have said something before it all went to hell. I bet I wouldn’t have been such a fucking chicken.”

“It wouldn’t have helped,” Armitage says. He turns around, sits on the lid of the toilet, and puts his face in his hands so he doesn’t have to look at Kylo. “You saying something wasn’t what I needed.”

“What did you need?” Kylo asks.

“This,” Armitage says, gesturing out to his shitty little apartment, and his shitty narrow bed. Millicent won’t even come up here most nights, prefers to stay in the bar and sulk rather than wander around a too-small bedroom, yowling and crying. “I needed some space. I needed to be alone.”

Kylo sighs. There’s a clunk as he sets the glass of water down on the bathroom counter, and when Armitage looks up, Kylo is rubbing at his eyes.

“Alright,” Kylo says. “Okay. Yeah. I…I understand if you need space. Maybe it’s just…not the right time. I wish…” He sticks his hand into his pocket, draws that folded piece of paper partway out— _everything I wanted to say to you_ —and then pushes it back in. “I mean, if you need this, and I need—not this …”

“Past tense, Kylo,” Armitage says. “I didn’t misspeak.”

Kylo blinks. “You don’t…need space now?”

“What about you, Kylo? What do you need?” Armitage asks. He makes eye contact even though it fucking kills him to do it, even though Kylo’s eyes are still kind of wet looking, even though it hurts his goddamn heart just to watch this happening and he wishes they’d just fucked so he could lose himself in Kylo one more time, just one more fucking time—

Kylo looks away for a moment before he looks back. “This,” Kylo says finally, gesturing to the hand in his pocket. “I need an answer to my question. If you’re…if you’re ready to answer.”

“Look,” Armitage says. “Just…spit it out. I can’t take this.”

Kylo takes a step into the tiny bathroom, and then another, and then he’s right next to Armitage, his legs so close that Armitage could rest his head on Kylo’s thighs if he just tipped his head down, so close that Armitage needs to tip his head up to be able to see Kylo’s face. “But can you tell me what you want first, please? Before I ask?” His hand is on Armitage’s shoulder, thumb rubbing against Armitage’s neck.

Armitage squeezes his eyes shut tight. Tips his head forward, rests it on Kylo’s thigh against his jeans. Stretches his hands forward, just a little, and locks them around Kylo’s knee. He’s sitting on the closed toilet in his shithole apartment above the fucking bar and Kylo’s come after him for the nine millionth time like some kind of a knight in shining armour, and he just keeps—offering to pull Armitage out of the holes he’s put himself in, keeps offering to pull Armitage out of the mess that is his life. “This,” he says hoarsely.

“Hmm?”

“I just want whatever I can get,” Armitage says, and he tells himself that his voice is cracking because of the smoking, tells himself that’s why his throat is raw and swollen and closing. “I just…I thought…when you texted me.”

“Yeah?” Kylo says, and he crouches down, takes Armitage’s hands in his. “Did you—did you wanna hear from me? When I texted you?”

“So much,” Armitage admits. “I…so much.”

“Oh,” Kylo says in wonder. “What did you…what did you want me to do when I showed up?”

Armitage turns his head to the side, coughs into his arm. “Fuck me,” he rasps. “I figured…you probably still hated my guts, but it’d probably be good for a hate fuck, and maybe an orgasm if I was lucky. If you didn’t…if you didn’t hate me too much to get me off.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sale,” Kylo curses, and then he’s gathering Armitage up and lifting him off the toilet, hauling him out of the bathroom. “I can’t fucking believe you, that’s seriously what you thought I showed up to do?”

“I hoped,” Armitage mutters into Kylo’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around Kylo’s neck and squeezing Kylo’s waist with his thighs. “And then—and then you rolled off me, and now I just…I don’t know, what the fuck is your question?”

Kylo puts Armitage down on the bed, sits down heavily beside him, the bedsprings creaking ominously. “Do you want a blanket? You look cold.”

“I’m not wearing pants, Kylo,” Armitage snaps. He reaches over Kylo’s body to grab his blanket, and then retreats to the end of the bed, lets Kylo have the end with the pillow while Armitage scrunches back against the footboard. “Can you just ask your question, please?”

Kylo pulls the piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolds it.

(Armitage shouldn’t have said he just wants to fuck. Not when it’s so far from the truth—and the truth is that he _does_ want to fuck, but he also wants the rest of it back too—the excess of pillows on Kylo’s bed, Kylo’s habit of leaving wet towels on the floor of the bathroom, the way he wanders around in his yoga pants. He wants Kylo’s incessant journalling and the way he sticks his paintbrush in his mouth when he’s thinking even though that shit is toxic as—)

“Will you go out with me, Armitage?”

“Pardon?” Armitage asks. He means it to sound calm and steadied, but he’s so startled it comes out as something between a screech and a squawk. “Will I _what_?”

“Will you go out with me,” Kylo repeats, trying and failing to suppress a smile. “I want you to be my boyfriend, Armitage. I don’t need anything else. I just need you—I need you to tell me yes or no. Do you want to date me for real?”

Armitage shuts his eyes. Puts his head in his hands. “Kylo,” he says.

“Yes or no,” Kylo repeats. “Answer the question, Armitage.”

“Grab my wallet from the nightstand.”

“You don’t have a nightstand,” Kylo says. “There’s a milk crate beside your bed.”

“Yeah,” Armitage says. “That. My wallet’s in there.”

“Okay,” Kylo says. He pulls the wallet out, opens it up. “You’re not supposed to keep condoms in your wallet. I learned that from Wikipedia.”

“That thing’s ancient,” Armitage says. _It’s not the part I actually care about_ , he wants to say, but part of him hopes that Kylo just closes the wallet and walks out, because if Kylo closes the wallet and walks out, they never need to discuss the rest of it, they don’t need to talk about anything, they don’t need to do anything, they can just—

“Oh,” Kylo breathes. “You—oh.” He takes the piece of paper out, unfolds it.

(Of course he recognizes it.)

Armitage can’t look.

But he can’t not look.

“I thought you threw it out,” Kylo breathes, drawing his fingers down the paper.

“I should have,” Armitage says. He couldn’t possibly have thrown it out. He’d cleared all his things out of the apartment, hauled everything over to his studio, even taken his cat—and still come back for that fucking list, fished the key out from under the door with a fucking bent piece of metal just because the thought of leaving the list behind made him feel like dying. “I don’t know where the corner of it ended up going, I don’t know if Millie ate it or if it just—rubbed off somewhere, and—”

“I honestly thought you threw it out,” Kylo says, and his voice hitches a little. “I mean, there was nothing worse than you leaving, I swear it—but it was just as bad when you took this with you, because it was—it was everything to me, I never had—I never had anything like what I had with you, I never had something where it—didn’t matter that I was weird or awkward or didn’t know how to kiss, I never had something where it didn’t matter that I hadn’t done anything because you didn’t _expect_ me to do anything, you just—you just let me live, you let me do what I wanted, you made sure I was okay all the time, and I—” His voice hitches, and his fingers still on the page. “I fucking can’t, Armitage, please don’t make me.”

“I want to be able to add stuff to the list,” Armitage says. “For me, not for you. I want to…I want…I want to not worry about you as long as I’m not hurting you. And just, like. Be selfish. I just want to be selfish. And I want—I want that to be treated with validity. If I want—if I want to edge for three hours before you let me come, I want that to be—I want that to be a thing we can do. I don’t want to negotiate on that. I won’t be in a relationship where I can’t have that.”

“Okay,” Kylo says slowly. “Do I have to—also not come for three hours? Because I’m gonna be really terrible at that, but I’m gonna try my best and—”

Armitage looks up at Kylo.

Kylo chews at his lip.

“I don’t give a fuck how many times you come in three hours,” Armitage says. “You wanna come four times in three hours? I’ll make that happen. You want to come six times? I’m not making any promises, but I’ll fucking try. This isn’t about you, Kylo, this is about me, this is—”

“Yes,” Kylo says. “Fuck yes, Armitage, I’ll—of course I’ll edge you for three hours, get over here, I’ll start now—” He runs his hands back through his hair, looks at Armitage. “Do you—do you want to?”

“Fuck yes,” Armitage breathes. He reaches under his sweater, shimmies his underwear down his legs and off until all he’s wearing is his sweater and the ring, and then crawls over to Kylo. “Let me touch you—”

“Yes,” Kylo breathes.

Armitage crawls into Kylo’s lap, kisses him.

Kylo’s mouth is warm and welcoming and his skin tastes good when Armitage licks it. Kylo’s arms are around him, pulling him close, and he can feel the heat of Kylo’s body underneath him, can feel Kylo’s cock starting to harden under his thigh, can feel—

“Wait,” Kylo says. His hands tense on Armitage’s back.

“What,” Armitage asks. His heartbeat is quick in his chest, and he feels light-headed. He tries to tilt his hips so that he’s back in contact with Kylo, but Kylo keeps him held further away, balanced over his kneecaps instead of on Kylo’s thighs where he wants to be.

“You didn’t answer the question,” Kylo says. “I asked you if you wanted to date me. And you never—you never said anything. And now we’re just—we’re just gonna have sex, but you never answered my question.”

Armitage closes his eyes. “I’m not a good person to date.”

Kylo doesn’t say anything.

“I didn’t—I mean. I went to therapy, but I’m not…I’m not doing anything there except crying. I’m not doing anything here except—handwashing fucking pint glasses and scrubbing that fucking bloodstain off the floor. I haven’t—I haven’t done anything to improve my life. I smoke too much. I’m drinking more than I should, but I’m not my father yet…”

“You could never be your father,” Kylo says softly. “Not ever, Armitage.”

“I just…” Armitage says. He sticks his hands in the pockets of Kylo’s hoodie, rests his forehead against Kylo’s shoulder. “I’m not a better person yet.”

“I asked _you_ ,” Kylo says, “right now, the you that you are—if you want to go out with me, Armitage.”

Armitage opens his eyes, and Kylo is just—watching him. His eyes are liquid and warm and his face is so soft, and Armitage—Armitage doesn’t deserve him, not at all. He could live to be ninety, and he would never do a single goddamn thing in his life that would make him deserve Kylo, and Kylo is still…Kylo is still here.

“Yes,” Armitage says. “Yes, I want—I want to date you. I want to hold your hand and I want to hear about your day, and I can’t—I can’t make any promises about going back to school, because I don’t think I want to anymore, but I’ll read your essays for you if you want, and look at your paintings—” Fuck. He should have stopped talking before this, before he got to the point where he was thinking about—feelings, or Kylo, or any of this. He tips his head up, looks at the ceiling, blinks rapidly, knowing that he’s too late because he can already feel the tears sliding down his face. “Fuck, Kylo.” There’s no heat to it. There can’t be, not when he’s missed Kylo this much and somehow is lucky enough to have Kylo come back anyway.

Kylo’s thumb is on the side of his face, wiping gently down his cheek. “Hey,” Kylo says softly. “Thank you.”

Armitage whimpers.

“I would love to date you,” Kylo continues. “We can just—we can just date now, okay? You can keep working on yourself. And we can just date through that, okay?”

“Okay,” Armitage says.

“And we can just…we can talk stuff out,” Kylo says. “You can put whatever you want on the list. I’m okay with that.” Kylo bends his head to Armitage’s shoulder, gently mouths on his bare skin where his sweater has slid out of the way, puts his hands firmly on Armitage’s hips and pulls him closer, from Kylo’s kneecaps to his thighs, nearly flush with Kylo’s hips—

“Wait,” Armitage says. He swipes his hand across his face, leans back so that he’s tipped away from Kylo. “You’re actually serious about wanting to date me?”

“Yeah,” Kylo says. “Long-term, if you’ll have me. I, uh. I really liked the fake thing, and I—I was in denial about it being fake.” He looks away. “I mean, my therapist said that maybe if I’d dealt with that—”

“ _How_ long-term?” Armitage asks.

Kylo closes his eyes, scrunches his face in a way that definitely should not be nearly as sweet as what it is. “I kept the engagement ring on that ceramic cat beside my bed so that it was the first thing I saw when I woke up in the morning, for fuck’s sake, Armitage, how long-term did you think I meant?”

“Okay,” Armitage says. “Okay, good.” He reaches into his sweater and pulls out the ring, closes it in his palm and tugs hard until the chain snaps and gives, and then immediately regrets it. “Is this…is this okay?”

“Fuck yeah,” Kylo says hungrily, staring at Armitage’s hand. “Do it.”

The only thing better than slipping the ring back on his finger is looking into Kylo’s eyes as he does it, listening to Kylo’s breath hitch as the ring slides home. The only thing better is the way Kylo kisses him, deeply, with his mouth open. The only thing better is the part where Kylo is _back_ and Armitage, somehow, after all of this, still gets everything—or, at least, gets a chance at everything.

“I love you,” Kylo murmurs, and he puts his hands on Armitage’s hips and pulls him in close.

“Holy fuck,” Armitage says, his cock suddenly pressed up against Kylo’s length. “ _Kylo_.” It’s too much, it’s all too much, and he tucks his head into Kylo’s shoulder, pants hot into his neck, knowing that he should get control of himself but also knowing that he doesn’t want to, he really doesn’t want to—

“What do you want?” Kylo breathes. “I can’t think, I can’t—Armitage, tell me what you want—”

“Everything,” Armitage gasps into Kylo’s neck. “Do you have any idea—how many times—I touched myself thinking of you? Every fucking night, every time I couldn’t sleep, thinking of your face and your chest and your cock—” It’s embarrassing, it’s not something he should be admitting, but Kylo groans underneath him and he can’t bring himself to mind, he can’t bring himself to be upset over it, he can’t bring himself to worry or be scared or—

“—off?” Kylo asks.

“Wha—?”

“Your sweater,” Kylo says.

“You’re still fully dressed,” Armitage points out. He looks down. “And it’s not like you can’t see my dick anyway.”

“Want to see your nipples,” Kylo says, and his pupils are blown all to hell, ears red and mouth starting to slacken. “Want to touch your chest. Want to put my fingers—fingers in you.”

“You can put a lot more,” Armitage says, and then he stops—but they’re dating now, so what the fuck does it matter? He nestles his head back into Kylo’s neck, gently pushes at Kylo’s shoulders to get him to lean back.

As soon as Kylo is flat on his back on the bed, Armitage grabs his sweater and hauls it up over his head, tossing it to the ground. Kylo’s hands go immediately to his nipples, thumbs rubbing against them, and Armitage whimpers. He’d forgotten about Kylo’s painting calluses, how had he forgotten—and fuck, the roughness of Kylo’s fingers feels good against his chest, against his skin, and he’s sure he’s blushing the entire length of his body because his skin feels like it’s on fire—

He grinds down against Kylo’s crotch, and Kylo moans, twitches up against him.

“A lot more—a lot more what?” Kylo asks breathlessly. His hands are scrabbling at his waist, but Armitage can’t tell if he’s trying to get his shirt up or his pants down, and either way, he’s not making a lot of progress.

“A lot more of whatever you want,” Armitage says, realizing suddenly that it’s probably not a good idea to make it seem like he’s pressuring Kylo into anything, that maybe rather than doing what he wants, they should just do what Kylo wants, let Kylo set the pace—this is new, it should feel fragile, it should feel uncertain, but it doesn’t feel that way at all—

Kylo thrusts up against him. “I want so much,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about this. Constantly. I got—” He flushes bright red, eyes sliding off to the side a moment before he looks back up at Armitage, hips stilling. “I bought toys,” he says in a whisper.

“You’re adorable,” Armitage says, rocking against him a little. “Have you been putting things up your arse and thinking of me?”

“Yes,” Kylo hisses, the breath all going out of him in a long sigh. “Yes, Armitage—every night, my fingers or a toy, thinking about you—you taught me so well, you made it so good for me—”

Armitage bends forward and captures Kylo’s lips in his, kisses him deep and reaches for the zipper of Kylo’s hoodie, starts unzipping it so he can push it off Kylo’s shoulders, which are more defined than they used to be. He kisses the corner of Kylo’s mouth, and then starts kissing down his neck to his collarbone.

Kylo giggles.

“What?”

“Your beard tickles.”

Armitage deliberately rubs his beard into Kylo’s neck. “Do you wanna take off your shirt?”

“Yeah,” Kylo says, reaching down and pulling his shirt up and over his head.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Armitage says. “Were you in the gym the entire time?”

Kylo looks away for a moment. “Uh, no,” he says sheepishly. “I was, uh. Kicked out for a bit? And when I went back, I think Phasma was pissed, because my training has been intense since then.”

_Intense_ does not even begin to describe Kylo’s chest. Armitage is biting his own lip, cock even harder just from _looking_ at Kylo. His chest is far more developed than it used to be. His abs are more firmly outlined. He just looks…fuck, he looks fantastic.

“Move down the bed a bit?” Armitage asks. His voice is hoarse, and he turns his head, coughs into his arm again.

“Now that we’re dating,” Kylo says, lifting his hips with Armitage still on them and moving closer to the centre of the bed. “I’m going to tell you the amount you’re smoking is fucking disgusting.”

“Thank you,” Armitage says dryly. “It’s not like I didn’t already tell you I was smoking too much.”

“You’re smoking too much,” Kylo says. “You stink like cigarettes.”

“I’m aware,” Armitage says. He waits until Kylo is lying down, and then shuffles down between his legs, bends forward and deliberately licks into Kylo’s bellybutton, just to watch Kylo writhe underneath him.

(It tastes of salt, and sweat, and _Kylo_.)

Armitage reaches for the button on Kylo’s pants, hesitates.

“What?”

Armitage holds his hand up. “Look,” he says. “My hand is shaking.”

Kylo smiles at him. “I love you,” he says.

“Holy fuck,” Armitage says. “I love you too, but I’m never gonna get this button undone.”

“No, look,” Kylo says. He reaches down, easily pops the button. “There, I got it. You need help with the zipper?”

“Absolutely not,” Armitage says, and he reaches for the zipper and pulls it the entire way down before reaching in under the waistband of Kylo’s underwear and pulling out his cock.

“I wore new underwear,” Kylo pouts.

“It’s very nice,” Armitage says, staring at Kylo’s cock before forcing himself to look down at Kylo’s underwear. “Oh,” he says after a moment. “Okay, the underwear is good too.”

“They have, like, a pouch for my junk,” Kylo says. “Turns out it’s way more comfortable than the boxers I’ve been wearing since I was sixteen.”

“Of course it is,” Armitage says. He puts his hand down over Kylo’s cock, presses it gently against his stomach just to hear Kylo groan. “What do you want, Kylo?”

“Now that you’re…my boyfriend,” Kylo says.

“Now that you’re my boyfriend,” Armitage agrees, and he bends forward, exhales gently against Kylo’s cock. “What do you want?”

“That—oral—would be nice,” Kylo says. He shifts a little, makes a face, and lifts his head up off the bed. “Why is there something hard underneath your pillow?”

“None of your business,” Armitage says, and he leans forward and catches the tip of Kylo’s cock in his mouth, laps at it with his tongue before slowly starting to work it down his throat. He forgot the stretch, the way he has to widen his jaw just to make sure he can actually fit the entire thing in it, and how calm Kylo is about the entire thing, shivering underneath him, but letting Armitage do things at his own speed, letting Armitage—

“This is—a—dildo, Armitage—you’ve got—a dildo—hey, wait a second, you’ve also got—”

Armitage huffs, lets Kylo’s dick drop out of his mouth, and sits back on his heels. “So what if I keep a dildo under my pillow?”

Kylo lifts his head up off the bed, and brandishes the poetry book in his other hand. “You realize I accused my sister of stealing this.”

Armitage blinks at him. “Uh,” he says. It’s not that he’d _forgotten_ that he stole Kylo’s poetry book—he flips through it every night, looking for Kylo’s notations in the margins, trying to figure out what the difference is between the poems Kylo annotated and the poems he ignored—but he definitely hadn’t been thinking of it when Kylo’s hand had gone under the pillow. “She didn’t. I did.”

“I see that now,” Kylo says, and he brings his other hand out from the pillow, brandishing the dildo. “And this is the one you bought that reminds you of me,” Kylo says. He hefts it in his hand, looking at Armitage. “You keep it under your pillow too. With my poetry book.”

“Where the hell else am I supposed to keep it?” Armitage asks tartly. “The milk crate masquerading as an end table? Maybe if you were paying attention to the blowjob your new boyfriend was giving you, you wouldn’t have time to go _rummaging about_ in his private things—”

“My _real_ boyfriend,” Kylo says softly, and oh, Armitage is so fucked over him, and it’s fucking awful.

“Oh, just let me give you a blowjob,” Armitage says. He can feel himself blushing, and if he doesn’t get Kylo distracted, the blush is going to creep in higher than his beard and then he’ll really be fucked—

Kylo props himself up on his elbows, raises an eyebrow. “So how often do you fuck yourself with the cock that’s supposed to be mine?”

“That’s none of your—”

“Have you done it yet today?”

Something in Armitage’s chest clenches, and doesn’t release. “I haven’t,” he says, voice only steady because he’s forcing it to be that way. “I didn’t have much of a chance, because I’ve been at work—”

“Doyouwantto,” Kylo says, and he says it like it’s one word, which means it takes a minute for Armitage to parse it—

“Pardon me?” he says, completely unimpressed with how high his voice goes at the end of the question, because there’s no way that Kylo actually—

Kylo takes a deep breath. “Do you want to fuck yourself with the cock that’s supposed to be mine, except not with the actual dildo part, because fuck that—I mean, don’t, like, literally fuck that, I was just wondering if you wanted to fuck me—we don’t have to, we can do something else—the blowjob was really nice too and that’s also fine—I guess for me to fuck you, not for you to fuck me, although we could also—I mean, both—”

Armitage squeezes his eyes shut, and opens them again. Kylo is still there. He pinches himself, hard, on his own thigh, hard enough that there’s going to be a bruise there tomorrow, and he looks down at the bed and Kylo is _still there_ , laid out flat with his ridiculous hardon smearing wetness over his own torso—

“—and I mean, maybe the blowjob thing would be a good idea first, because I don’t want to—just come instantly, that’d be really embarrassing and I know you don’t mind, but I’d like to just—you know—once, not—”

“Okay,” Armitage says.

Kylo stops talking, looks at him. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Armitage says. “I’ll—I’ll blow you and get you off that way, and then—I have some prep to do, and you can just—lie here and look pretty—and. Yeah. If you want to get it up again and fuck my arse, you can fuck my arse.”

“I won’t have any problem getting it up when your ass is … on the line,” Kylo says, ruining what was otherwise a really hot statement that was in the process of sending a shiver up Armitage’s spine.

Instead, he rolls his eyes. “Do you want fingers up your arse?”

“Ah,” Kylo says. “Do I get a couple minutes to clean up first, because if so, yes, and otherwise no.” He hesitates a moment. “My test results are still valid,” he says. “I haven’t been with anybody since you. Are your test results…?”

Armitage opens his mouth to say something and finds that his voice isn’t there to back him up. He nods instead. Clears his throat. Tries again. “They’re still valid. I didn’t…not since you.”

“Oh,” Kylo says, smiling. He sits up, and then leans forward, putting his hands on either side of Armitage’s face and kissing him deeply. “You are so fucking hot,” he says. “I love you so much, you’re unbelievable—while I’m gone, do you think you could—do you think you could touch yourself for me?”

“I could…”

“I mean,” Kylo says, his voice low. His lips are so close to Armitage’s that Armitage can feel them moving against his own as Kylo speaks. “You wanna edge yourself, right? Because I’ve been looking at your poor _neglected_ dick, and it looks so…hard…I really wish I’d written a script for this,” he says, frowning and pulling back a little. “Sorry, this is awful, I didn’t think we were going to—”

“It’s fine,” Armitage says, leaning forward and kissing him again to hide how hot his face is. “Don’t feel like you need to…”

“I want to be good for you,” Kylo says stubbornly. “Better for you. Than I was.”

“You’re doing fine, Kylo,” Armitage says, gesturing down to his dick. “I’m hard, aren’t I?”

Kylo grins at him, a lopsided pleased thing that brightens up his whole face. “Fuck yeah, you are,” he says. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Go on,” Armitage says, gesturing toward the bathroom. “Let me masturbate on my bed in peace, yeah?”

“Hell yeah,” Kylo says decisively.

 

Armitage normally closes his eyes when he masturbates—but when he closes his eyes, he can’t see the ring on his finger, so this time, he keeps them open, watches his own hand on his cock, drags the ring all the way up the length of him, smearing precome over the silicone.

“Boyfriend,” he says softly to himself, listening to the sink run in the bathroom, to the sounds of Kylo moving around.

It’s _so good_ , is the thing. Armitage is hard and aching with it, his entire body wound tight, and it’s something he wants to rush even though the rushing is never as good, even though he always regrets it the moment he comes—but, oh, it’s hard to wait when Kylo is back, it’s hard to wait knowing that Kylo still wants him, it’s hard to wait when the engagement ring is right the fuck back on his finger, the same place it’s always been, the same place it was the day that Armitage found out that Kylo wasn’t straight after all, the day he found out Kylo was _gay_ and _pining_ and—

“You don’t even look like you need me,” Kylo says lightly. “Look at you, you’re fucking gorgeous.”

Armitage looks over. Kylo’s splashed water on his face, and abandoned his pants in the bathroom, and the new underwear are very, very good on him—they hug tight to his cock, push his balls forward, highlight the entire package. Kylo’s tucked his cock upward this time and the tip of it presses up past the elastic, pulling it away from his body. Armitage desperately wants to sit right on it, now that he knows that’s an option. Now that Kylo’s offered it to him. Just—open himself up, and lower himself down on it, and it’s going to be so _good_. “Well, if you’re going to be all sour about it, you’re free to just—stand there and forego your blowjob.” He drags his hand deliberately slowly up his shaft, and then back down again. “You know, the blowjob where I stick my fingers up your arse—”

The bed creaks alarmingly as Kylo kneels down on it, eyes bright. “No, I really still want that blowjob. With the fingers up my arse.”

Armitage sits up, narrows his eyes at Kylo. “Horrific dirty talk aside, did you practice saying sex words in therapy or something? Because you used to blush every time I said _arse_ , and your ears aren’t even pink.”

Kylo makes a face. “Look, okay. I might have—I might have talked dirty to myself a bit and pretended it was you, okay? So I guess I kinda got used to it?”

Armitage strokes his cock one more time, shudders through the pleasure, and then brings his hand up to Kylo’s face, nudges his fingers into Kylo’s mouth. Kylo licks obediently, eyes fluttering closed, and it’s easy enough for Armitage to put his other hand on Kylo’s shoulder, nudge him into lying down. They have to shuffle to get comfortable again—the bed is narrow and small and they’ve been spoiled by the massive overly-soft pile of pillows that Kylo liked to call a bed back at his place—but they get there, Armitage kneeling between Kylo’s legs, and Kylo’s cock in his mouth.

(The lube is under the pillow, the same place the dildo was before Kylo pulled it out and waved it around, and Armitage drizzles some of it on his fingers, presses up against Kylo’s hole, which yields to him instantly—)

He lets Kylo’s dick pop out of his mouth. “How many fingers did you put up yourself just now?”

“Uh,” Kylo says vaguely. “One?”

Armitage raises an eyebrow at him, slides his finger out, and lubes up a second. “I know your fingers are thicker than mine, but they’re not _that_ much thicker.”

“I woke up hard,” Kylo says. “I had a dream—about you, and I—yeah, I fucked myself this morning, alright?” He’s blushing again, looking away. “And then I missed you,” he says softly. “So I stressed out about it for a couple hours and then I texted.”

“So fucking hot,” Armitage breathes, and Kylo shudders underneath him. “Thank you,” he adds, a moment later. “For texting.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Kylo moans. “Fuck, Armitage.”

Armitage presses both his fingers in and Kylo opens for him without resistance, sighing as Armitage penetrates him—and then gasping as Armitage brushes the tips of his fingers against Kylo’s prostate. Armitage leans forward, takes Kylo’s dick in his mouth, slowly descends until his nose is brushing against Kylo’s neatly trimmed pubic hair, and then slowly pulls off, rubbing at Kylo’s prostate the whole time. “Tell me about your toys,” he says, nuzzling his beard against Kylo’s dick. “I want to know about them.” He sucks a kiss into Kylo’s skin, next to the base of his cock, and then runs his tongue up the shaft, starts blowing him in earnest.

Kylo groans, arches up against Armitage’s face and then settles himself back down. “I ordered—glass ones, like the—like that plug that you had, because they were—ah, fuck, Armitage—because they were beautiful and they reminded me of you—and they’re all—textured and ribbed, and it’s—it’s so fucking intense, and I pretend—I pretend you’re there with me when I do it—”

“Next time,” Armitage says, pulling off Kylo’s cock to breathe. He feels light-headed, and he doesn’t think it’s just from the deepthroating. “Next time, I’ll be there, I’ll be there, sweetheart—”

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” Kylo says. “Not quite, yet, but—but soon, can you—with your fingers, just, like—fuck me really good—”

Armitage nods, takes Kylo’s cock back in his mouth, and shifts around to adjust the angle—and then slowly starts speeding up the pace at which he’s finger-fucking Kylo, and within a matter of moments, Kylo is throwing his head back and gasping, hips twitching up into Armitage’s mouth.

“Fuck, Armitage, I—”

Armitage curls his fingers, rubs hard against Kylo’s prostate, and Kylo arches off the bed and comes down Armitage’s throat, hissing a litany of curses as he fills Armitage’s mouth. Armitage swallows, his entire body tingling with arousal, his skin feeling raw and sensitive and hot and he wants Kylo so badly he can hardly breathe for it, has to reach down and grab at the base of his dick just to prevent himself from doing something stupid, like putting Kylo’s hand on his face and jacking off onto Kylo’s abs, which are way nicer now than they were—

“You okay?” Kylo asks softly. “Fuck, that was good. Thank you.”

“I’m fine,” Armitage says. He swallows again, runs his tongue along his teeth. He can still taste Kylo in his mouth, and fuck, Kylo tastes so goddamn good, has always tasted good, but there’s a bitter edge to it right now that there wasn’t before and he’s guessing that Kylo has been foregoing the excessive amounts of pineapple and other fruit in favour of more protein, because damn, is he built—

“Hey,” Kylo says. He’s sitting up now, and gathering Armitage up into his arms, and Armitage lets him. “That was really fantastic, your fingers feel way better than any toy, and I love—I love seeing your ring back on your hand, I didn’t realize how much I missed that until I saw you without it when I showed up at the bar, and I—I hated it, Armitage, I hated it—”

Armitage kisses him.

Kylo kisses him back, and then pulls away, frowning. “Ugh, I taste terrible.”

“It’s fine,” Armitage says, kissing Kylo again, but with tongue.

“Seriously,” Kylo says. “That’s awful, you should have just spat that back onto the sheets.”

“But my sheets are so nice,” Armitage says, deadpan.

“I’m gonna buy you a whole new bed,” Kylo says darkly. “This one’s too small, and I think the entire fucking place creaks when we move too quickly.”

Armitage pats him on the cheek. “Well, enjoy yourself in my shitty bed. I’ll be back in a few minutes, alright?”

 

It’s longer than a few minutes. Not because of the prep—that goes just as smoothly as it normally does—but because Armitage spends an obscene amount of time just staring at himself in the mirror and trying to convince himself that this is a bad decision. Trying to convince himself that he shouldn’t be the person to take Kylo’s virginity on yet another sexual activity, because he doesn’t deserve it. Trying to convince himself that Kylo is just going to dump him anyways, because it’s not like Armitage took any effort whatsoever to _change_ in the last few months—

But the thing is.

The thing is that.

Kylo wants him anyway.

(The thing is, Kylo’s his _boyfriend_ now. And Kylo won’t just—dump him like Armitage did, they’ll have to…they’ll have to talk about things now. Now that it’s real.)

“Hey,” Armitage calls from the bathroom.

“Yeah?” Kylo responds, voice vague and pleasure-hazed.

Armitage sticks his head out the door. “I wouldn’t, uh. Now that it’s. Now that we’re actually. I wouldn’t just—dump you again. Without talking about it first.”

“That’s really nice, Armitage,” Kylo says. He rubs his hand across his eyes, and looks over. “You gonna come back, and sit on my dick?”

Armitage trails his eyes down Kylo’s body to his crotch, where Kylo’s dick is flaccid, in that soft-engorged state it gets after he comes where it’s still impressive looking, just squishy. “Looks like you need a minute,” he says.

“Looks like I need my boyfriend back to motivate me,” Kylo says. He looks over at Armitage, and then scowls. “Should have brought my ring,” he mutters. “It’s not fair that you get to have yours on, and I’m just—” He waves his left hand. “—flailing around all naked.”

“I like you naked,” Armitage says simply. “I’m just—I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Mmhmm,” Kylo says.

 

He delays coming out of the bathroom, digs under the bathroom sink until he finds his secondary lockbox, snaps the flimsy lock off it completely, and digs around in his stash of fancy underwear until he finds the set he’s looking for.

(It’s the same set he’d worn for Kylo the last time, the same set he’d worn when Kylo had put his fingers in his arse for the first time, and god, Armitage hopes Kylo appreciates that he kept them, because—)

It’s worth it for the way Kylo’s eyes widen as soon as Armitage comes out of the room.

“Armitage,” he breathes. “Fuck, I love those underwear.”

“I know you do,” Armitage says, and he pretends his voice doesn’t wobble when he says it. He’s so hard he’s starting to get light-headed, just a little, but it’s going to feel so absolutely amazing to have Kylo inside him that he’s more than willing to wait, it’s going to feel so good when he edges himself all the way to this, it’s going to feel fantastic—

“Come here,” Kylo says. He sits up in bed, swings his legs over onto the floor. “Come sit in my lap?”

There’s not enough space in the bedroom for Armitage to actually have enough room to walk, but he swings his hips a little for the three steps that he takes anyways, lets Kylo stare at him with his eyes wide and his jaw loose and those gorgeous lips of his just—just waiting for Armitage to kiss him, and it feels so amazing to sit in Kylo’s lap, put his arms on Kylo’s shoulders, and shuffle forward on those massive thighs until he can rub his underwear-enclosed cock up against Kylo’s abs.

(The head of his cock pokes up above the waistband of the underwear the moment Armitage rolls his hips forward.)

“Fuck, you’re big,” Armitage purrs. “You’ve really been working on yourself.”

“I have been,” Kylo says, his hand gliding over Armitage’s back and playing with the hem of his underwear. “Except I still have this one…last…problem.”

Armitage rocks his pelvis forward, grinds up against Kylo again. “Hmm?”

“I have all this lube on my fingers,” Kylo says, nudging the wrist of his other hand against Armitage’s rib. “And nowhere to put it.”

“Your dirty talk is terrible,” Armitage complains, but he nuzzles into Kylo’s neck anyway. “But I might have a couple of ideas,” he says in a sultry voice—only to immediately duck away and snap, in his normal voice, “Not in my ear, you arse.”

Kylo chuckles, and then cups Armitage’s arse with one hand, and slides the other down the back of his underwear, down his crack, presses the pad of his finger against Armitage’s hole.

Armitage keeps grinding against him, forward into his abs, and back into Kylo’s ridiculously thick fingers. “Fuck, I love your hands.”

Kylo murmurs something incoherent into Armitage’s ear, and circles the pad of his finger around once more before slowly starting to press into him.

The stretch is delicious. Kylo presses in steadily, waits for a moment once his finger has bottomed out, and then just as slowly pulls out before putting two fingers together and pressing them back in.

Armitage moans, high and breathy and he hates it, it’s probably going to carry down to the bar, and he hates that too, except it feels fucking amazing to have Kylo’s fingers inside him, Kylo’s deep voice murmuring comfort into his ear, to have his hard cock trapped against Kylo’s abs and to be able to bury his face in Kylo’s hair, and he can’t bring himself to care about any of the things he usually cares about—

Kylo’s fingers crook into his prostate, and Armitage gasps, hand going between his legs to squeeze at his dick. “Don’t do that,” he says frantically. “Don’t do that, don’t—”

“You can wait,” Kylo says into his ear, voice low and thick. “You can wait for me, I know you can be good. Just wait, okay? Hang in there. Don’t come yet.” Kylo shifts, grinds up against him and Armitage can feel the thick length of Kylo’s cock pressing against his own balls, even though they’re nearly drawn into his body with how close he is. “Don’t come,” Kylo says. “Don’t come, don’t come.” He stands up, staggers a bit as he shifts his balance, pulling his fingers out of Armitage and then turning back to the bed, and gently lowering Armitage down, one wet hand on his thigh, and the other arm cradling his shoulders, hand splayed over the back of his head. He lays Armitage down on the pillow, and breathes heavily against him for a moment before slowly pressing his fingers in again, and then pulling them out.

Armitage whines, tries to chase his fingers, and Kylo’s hand captures Armitage’s hip and holds him still.

“No,” Kylo says. “Wait.”

“Do you want me to come while you’re inside me?” Armitage babbles. “Do you want me to—while you’re fucking me through the floor—do you want me to—”

“Maybe,” Kylo says, and his eyes are all blown and he looks a complete mess, hair all a disaster around his face and his teeth gnawing at his lower lip. “But let me get my dick in you, let me—let me tell you what your options are, let me—here,” he says, and he puts his fingers back into Armitage—

—three of them this time, and the stretch and the burn of it are exquisite—

“Can’t believe,” Armitage gasps, because it’s important somehow, it’s important because Kylo is kneeling over him with three of his fingers up Armitage’s arse and his other hand fumbling trying to get the lube opened again, because Kylo can’t stop fucking _staring_ at him, because somehow, some way, this was something important, this was something worth saving, this was something that they _both wanted to save_ — “Can’t believe we can another chance at this, pick up where we left off, can’t believe we get—we get this all the time—”

“Every day,” Kylo promises, finally giving up and unscrewing the lube cap with his teeth, and only flinching a little at the taste of it. “We get this every goddamn day, as much as we want—”

“Never enough,” Armitage says, gasping as Kylo tilts his hand, changes the angle of his wrist, and there are sparks going off behind Armitage’s eyes. “There’s never gonna be enough, I’ll never get enough—” He slaps both his hands down on the bed, because if he touches his cock again he’s going to come, and he wants to—he wants to wait—

“You say that now,” Kylo says. “This is gonna be terrible, I’m warning you in advance—I’ve got you stretched out, and you’re so nice on my fingers, and you’re going to feel fucking amazing on my dick, and I just wanna—I just wanna apologize in advance because this is gonna be absolutely terrible intercourse—”

“Get the fuck on with it,” Armitage snaps. “Kylo. Get out of your—your goddamn head and—get your dick in me?” It’s not supposed to be a question, it was never supposed to be a question, but Kylo is pulling his fingers out and Armitage is gasping at the loss, and then he can feel the slick head of Kylo’s cock nudging against him, and everything—

—everything goes quiet.

Armitage can hear the pipes rattling distantly in the walls, the drip of the faucet from the bathroom. The distant hum of the television from downstairs at the bar, a gust of wind rattling the windows outside. Everything he has in this world is right here, everything he needs is right here, and he could—he could die right now and everything would be absolutely fine, and he opens his mouth to tell Kylo that—

—and Kylo slowly presses his cock inside Armitage, and everything goes white for a moment.

The stretch of it is intense, so intense that there’s a moment where it feels like Armitage has been punched in the stomach, a moment where he can’t even inhale enough to be able to gasp even though it feels like all of his skin is gasping, even though it feels like every emotional wall he’s ever put up has been shattered just by the stretch of Kylo’s cock in him—

—and then all the sound comes back, and Kylo groans, stills, and Armitage reaches out, clutching for his shoulder, his breathing high pitched and his words indecipherable, he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say but his mouth is open and words are coming out—

“—couldn’t ever be without you couldn’t ever—don’t go, don’t leave me—please don’t—”

“Never,” Kylo is saying, his eyes shut and his head hanging down, loose bits of his hair tickling over Armitage’s stomach. “Never, never, never—shit, Armitage, you feel amazing, you’re so fucking tight and _hot_ , wow, I didn’t know about—I didn’t know how hot you would be inside—”

“You,” Armitage says, and then he stops. Breathes. His cock aches and he’s so hard he may die of it. “You have your fingers inside me all the time,” he says, a little shakily. “You should have known—”

“I didn’t,” Kylo says, nearly incoherent. “I didn’t know it would translate—holy fuck, I can’t believe I get to do this with you, I can’t believe I get to do this with you—”

Armitage drags his hand down Kylo’s arm, clutches at Kylo’s wrist. He can feel the tendons standing out under Kylo’s flesh.

Kylo has gone completely silent, head ducked down so that Armitage can’t see his face because his hair is hanging in the way.

“Are you—okay?” Armitage asks, even though he’s a mess himself. He’s overwhelmed and shattering and he’s never felt better than what he feels right now, he’s never felt—

“I’m okay,” Kylo says haltingly. “I’m—trying to think about something else, to be honest. I just need a minute to think about something else.”

“We can just finish,” Armitage offers. He looks down at his own dick—hard and red and wet at the tip, and he knows it’s not going to take much, because he can feel his orgasm coiling in the base of his spine. “I was joking when I said three hours—”

“No,” Kylo says softly, “you weren’t.” He looks up. There’s sweat on his face and in his hairline, and his skin is flushed from exertion. “Your face—is different—when you’re joking—” He swallows, hard. “I mean, I’m not gonna make it three hours, but I’ll—I’ll put it on the list myself, okay? I’ll buy a cock ring, I’ll buy you sixteen different dildos, I’ll give you whatever you need—”

Armitage clamps his mouth shut but the fucking sounds escape anyway. He bites down on his own hand, but he can still feel his high-pitched moan in his throat. “Promise me,” he gasps out. “Promise me I can have it.”

“I promise,” Kylo says. He twitches his hips, his breath coming out in a stuttered exhale.

“Feels amazing,” Armitage slurs. _God_ , the stretch is fantastic. He knows he’s tight because he hasn’t been masturbating as much as normal—hasn’t been masturbating for pleasure so much as he’s been masturbating just so he can stop fucking thinking of _Kylo—_ but it feels like Kylo’s working his entire arm up there, and goddamn if that visual doesn’t get him close—

“Consolation prize,” Kylo says.

Armitage blinks, wipes the back of his hand across his eyes to move his sweat-damp hair out of the way. “Pardon?”

“I have—a consolation prize.”

Armitage frowns. “For what?” He’s still not reaching for his dick even though he wants to, he wants to so bad, it’s going to feel so good to just grab it and squeeze, drag his palm up the shaft, run his thumb over the head, the entire thing sensitive, like a live-wire of pleasure going straight to the back of his brain and down his spine—

“For the fact that I’m gonna come in, like, thirty seconds once I start moving,” Kylo says. “The, uh. The inexperience, I’m just...”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Armitage snaps. “Don’t you dare talk shit about that, it’s been a delight.” He swallows. “I really do want you to move, though,” he says. “Even if it is just thirty seconds, I can get myself off in that amount of time—”

“Or don’t,” Kylo says. He looks up at Armitage, hair hanging partly in front of his face. “You wanna keep edging, right? No—not what you think I want—what you want, Armitage. Do you—do you wanna keep edging?”

Armitage is so hard that he might cry. “Yes,” he says, and his voice cracks, breaks, gives out. “Y-yes, I do.”

“Do you wanna fuck my ass?” Kylo asks. “If you can hold out for me—hold out for me while I finish, you can—you can fuck me, if you want. You’d like that, right, Armitage? Sticking your, uh, your dick in me?”

_Fuck_ , he’s so close. “I would,” Armitage says, trying to keep his voice steady. “Here, do you wanna—if you’re close—let me flip over? I’ll go on all fours…like that time that you jacked off onto my arse, except you can just come right in me this time—”

“ _Fuck_ yes,” Kylo says. He pulls out slowly, panting and squeezing hard at the base of his dick. His dick is completely coated in lube, looks even bigger than what Armitage remembers it looking, and fuck, Armitage can’t believe he gets this, he can’t believe he finally gets what he wants because now he has Kylo, Kylo in his bed, and Kylo’s ring on his finger, and they’ll—they’ll go down and get something to eat when this is done, and then they’ll—

Armitage’s legs are shaking as he flips himself over. He feels—open, gaping, wide and ready, and the best part is that he doesn’t even need to tell Kylo to lube up again because he can hear the thick _squelch_ that means that’s exactly what Kylo’s doing. “Slow on the way in,” Armitage says. “Wait for me to give you the okay.”

“Uh-huh,” Kylo says, and he rests the head of his cock against Armitage’s hole for a moment before slowly and steadily pushing it in.

Armitage’s body adjusts faster this time, and he twitches when the head of Kylo’s cock rubs up against his prostate. At this angle, on all fours, his own dick is heavy under the pull of gravity even though his balls are still drawn up tight, and he shudders again, thinking of how it’s going to feel if Kylo slams into him, Kylo’s own heavy balls slamming against Armitage’s tight ones— “Do it,” he gasps. “Fuck me, Kylo, fuck me—fuck me, Kylo, I’ve waited so long for your dick in my arse, fuck me with that nice thick cock—”

There’s a moment of hesitation where Kylo doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything, and then his hands are tight on Armitage’s hips—oh, so tight, he’ll definitely bruise—and he’s slowly pulling out of Armitage, and then pushing back in. Kylo thrusts irregularly at first, his hips stuttering as he gets deeper in, his thighs only just barely touching Armitage’s, and Armitage wants to tell him to _hurry it the fuck up_ and _I won’t fucking break_ except that he might, actually, with the thickness of Kylo’s cock and how good it feels inside him, how open his arse feels and how goddamn _filled up_ he is right now—and then Kylo exhales heavily, murmurs an apology, and starts to thrust in earnest, his pace becoming more regular as his speed picks up, and it’s fucking amazing, it is so fucking good, Kylo feels great against him and he can actually feel Kylo’s balls smacking against his own and he can feel Kylo’s weight slowly pushing him down into the bed as Kylo leans into him, heavier and heavier—

“This feels amazing,” Kylo breathes. “I wanna—I wanna do this all the time, wanna fuck you open all the time, want to spread you open and put my fingers up inside you, want to open you up with my fingers and then sit you down on my cock, want you to sit in my lap and fuck yourself on me, want to fuck you right through the bed into the floor, wanna shove you up against a wall and just take you over and over and over again—oh, fuck, I’m so sorry, Armitage, I’m gonna come, should I—fuck, I don’t wanna pull out, wait, I’ll do it, I’ll—”

“Don’t,” Armitage says, voice rasping in his throat. “Right in me, Kylo. I don’t care about the mess. I want you to come right inside me.”

“Fuck,” Kylo says. “Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck—” His right hand tightens on Armitage’s hip, and his left slides down Armitage’s back until it’s between his shoulder blades, pushing Armitage’s chest down into the bed. “Gonna fuck you so hard— _aaaaah_!”

Armitage can feel it, feel the pulse of Kylo’s cock twitching inside him, can feel wet slide of it when Kylo starts to pull out, and Armitage reaches back, grabs the back of Kylo’s knee. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to pull out yet, you can—you can come down a bit first if you want.”

“Yeah,” Kylo says vaguely. “Okay, I’ll just—yeah.” He bends over Armitage, his stomach against Armitage’s back. Kylo’s sweaty, filthy and damp, and normally it’s the kind of thing Armitage would find gross—and he’s kicked people out of bed for less—but he’s still achingly hard and he finds that he doesn’t mind that much. It’s Kylo. There are a lot of things about Kylo that he doesn’t much mind.

Kylo exhales heavily, and Armitage feels it on his neck. “I did _not_ fuck you hard,” he says ruefully.

“It was your first time,” Armitage says. “You’ll either get more stamina, or you’ll get really good at wielding a dildo, and I don’t much care which option you pick.”

Kylo chuckles. “ _Boyfriend_ ,” he says, as though he’s testing the word out. And then, “You should see my arm muscles.”

“Kylo,” Armitage says, “I’ve been staring at your arms all night, you look fucking amazing.”

“Mmmm,” Kylo says against his back. “I’m gonna pull out now, okay?”

“Slowly—” Armitage starts to say—but Kylo pulls out all at once, and Armitage winces at the sudden change. He should move, he should roll over and close his legs, he should let Kylo blow him for a little bit, give Kylo some time to decide if he’s still—

“Shit,” Kylo swears, the sound long and drawn out. “I didn’t know…you look.”

Armitage should really move.

He stays exactly where he is.

Kylo makes an odd sound, and Armitage looks back over his shoulder, and Kylo is—Kylo is giggling, trying to stifle it with his hand.

“What,” Armitage says flatly.

Kylo shakes his head, presses his hand tighter against his mouth. “Nuh-uh.”

“Fess up.”

“Nope.”

“Kylo.”

“…it just looks like a glazed donut, okay? Your ass.” Kylo’s face is pink, and he’s just—staring at Armitage. “You know, with the—I mean, with my come, and your…hole, and I just…”

“For fuck’s sake,” Armitage mutters, and he turns his face back to the pillow, burrows into it. “Arse.”

There’s a sudden movement behind him, and Armitage squeals as there’s suddenly a wet, warm _lick_ right up his crack.

“Kylo!”

“Oh, uh,” Kylo says. He sounds stoned. “Sorry, I should have…should have asked, do you mind if I just…sorry, people probably don’t do this.”

“People do this,” Armitage says breathlessly. He reaches back between his legs, gives his cock a good hard stroke. “I do it, sometimes. Not often, but sometimes.”

“Oh, thank god,” Kylo says. “I thought I made it up and you’d think it was weird.”

“…by all means,” Armitage says. “Take credit for inventing rimming. Only…”

“Only?”

“Do it again?” Armitage asks. His entire face is burning, and he’s certain that even opening his mouth was a bad idea, that he’s going to regret—

“Thank god,” Kylo mutters, and then he puts his hands back on Armitage’s hips and ducks his head again, hair tickling Armitage’s arse as his tongue laps over his hole, swipes up his crack, snakes in at the base of his balls and licks those too, reduces Armitage to a quivery whimpering mess, unable to do anything except whine and drool into his pillow as Kylo licks him.

“So good,” Armitage whines. “It’s so good, it’s so good…Kylo, I’m…Kylo, I’m close…”

“Stop,” Kylo murmurs between his thighs, hands tightening on Armitage’s hips. “You didn’t…you didn’t come, did you?” His hand loosens on Armitage’s hip, drags down and around to his cock, jerks away when he brushes his fingers against it. “Holy shit, you’re so fucking hard.” His hand comes back, loosely wraps around Armitage’s length, slowly drags down it and then back up.

Armitage shudders. His spine feels like it’s tingling, his skin like it’s coming alive. He’s so light-headed he can hardly think.

“Doing okay?” Kylo asks, shifting up to the bed to lie beside him. “I’d kiss you,” he offers, “but I’m pretty sure you’d say no.”

“Mmm,” Armitage says, tipping his face to let Kylo kiss his cheek. He can feel his arse twitching, can feel more of Kylo’s come starting to leak out of him, so he clamps his legs together and lowers himself to the bed, careful not to jostle his hardon too much. Fuck, he positively _aches_ with it. He interlaces his hand with Kylo’s, ducks his head to Kylo’s neck and kisses away the sweat there, right at the hollow of his neck where his pulse beats, loud and strong—

There’s a quiet squelching sound, and Kylo tenses, and then moans into Armitage’s hair.

Armitage looks down, but Kylo’s dick is still soft, lube-slick and shrinking against his thigh, except that Kylo’s hand is between his legs, and—

“You’re serious,” Armitage breathes. “You’re gonna let me fuck you?”

“I’m—yeah, I’m—gonna let you fuck me,” Kylo says. He shifts a little, moves his arm, and sighs as he changes whatever he’s doing with his hand between his legs. Going deeper, maybe, or finally getting his own finger onto his prostate, or—fuck, whatever it is, it’s fucking gorgeous. “Fuck, how many fingers do I need to—do I need to do this?”

“Three,” Armitage says with little consideration. Three should be enough, should make it more pleasant for Kylo, that should make it—comfortable and nice, not intimidating or painful—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Kylo groans. “Your dick isn’t three of my fingers, stop—over-exaggerating—” He scrunches his face up for a moment, and then exhales heavily. “Anyways,” he says. “I’ve got three fingers in there now, so maybe you can—”

Armitage pushes himself up into a kneeling position, holds his aching cock up against his stomach as he shuffles to the end of the bed, pushes Kylo’s knee open and looks between his legs—

—and Kylo isn’t exaggerating at all, he’s got three fingers in there up to the third knuckle, and he’s gently working in the tip of his pinky, and his arse is—soaked with lube, and there are lube smears on his thighs and the familiar scattering of moles that Armitage has missed so fucking much, and he wants this more than he wants anything, is so turned on he can hardly speak.

“Pillow,” he slurs, and Kylo somehow understands what he means, grabs the pillow from under his head and awkwardly shoves it under his hips, tilts his hips up and pulls his fingers out, tugging at the rim as he finishes, and then spreading his legs wide and pulling his knees back to his chest.

“Is this okay?” Kylo asks, as though he doesn’t look like a fucking work of art right now, naked and gorgeous and completely devoted to Armitage, and it feels…it feels right this time, after four months apart.

(It feels like a thing that Armitage can work to deserve. He doesn’t right now—and he knows he doesn’t—but Kylo knows that too. It’s all out in the open now.)

“Beautiful,” Armitage says. “You’re absolutely beautiful, and I absolutely in no way deserve you.”

Kylo shrugs one massive shoulder. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re here,” Armitage says. “I’m here. What do you want, love?”

Kylo shudders, thighs shaking, eyes closing for a moment before opening again. “Anything you want.”

“Right now,” Armitage says. “I want…I want to fuck you, Kylo. I want to fuck you nice and slow.”

“And then come in me,” Kylo prompts.

“I can pull—”

“In me,” Kylo insists.

Armitage shifts, feels another trickle of Kylo’s semen running down his thigh. “Are you ready?” he asks.

“Nervous as shit,” Kylo says. He reaches down, grabs Armitage’s wrist in his dry hand, the same way Armitage had grabbed Kylo’s. “Ready, though. Go ahead, Armitage. Put your dick in my ass. Fuck me.”

Armitage inhales. Exhales. Slides lube over his own dick with a hand that won’t quite quit shaking, for some reason, and then drizzles more lube on Kylo’s hole. He should—he should—

—he should do exactly what he’s doing, right here, and right now. He steadies his dick with one hand and, squeezing Kylo’s hand with the other, gently pushes into him.

It’s fucking amazing.

Kylo is slick and sensitive, prone to shuddering and twitching around Armitage’s cock. Armitage goes so slowly—pressing his cock in by fractions of inches and pausing as soon as he gets the head of his cock in, watching the way Kylo’s face changes, his breathing hitches, the way he clenches his hands and bites his lip, the way he groans into the pillow, but then turns his face back so he can keep watching Armitage—

—everything is a haze of pleasure, everything is—more than what he ever wanted, more than he ever hoped for. Armitage bottoms out, his thighs pressed flat against Kylo’s body, Kylo’s dick soft and damp against his pelvis.

“Feel okay?” Armitage asks.

“Feels fucking amazing,” Kylo says. “Doesn’t hurt at all, you’re being so—so gentle with me, and you don’t have to be if you don’t want to be—”

“I know,” Armitage says. “Let me fuck you how I want, just this once?”

“Fuck yes,” Kylo breathes. “Exactly the way you want it, however you want me. Move my body the way you want it moved, be as gentle or as slow as you want, use me to edge yourself—I fucking love you, I’m never going to stop loving you, I loved you the entire time you were gone, I thought about you every day—”

Armitage takes a deep shuddering breath. There isn’t enough oxygen. His hips twitch and stutter, and he wants to crawl inside Kylo, wants to get inside his skin and curl up there next to his ribs, wants to—has to—oh, _fuck_.

When Armitage starts to move, it’s like the ceiling opens up above them and the sky comes in, the aurora borealis shimmering and dancing up above them, reds and blues and greens with just a hint of gold, the same hint of gold that dances around the edges of Kylo’s eyes, somehow even more visible when he’s happy than it is any other time. Armitage pulls away from Kylo, and he feels the sweet-silk drag of him, the way Kylo’s body keeps trying to pull him back in.

_You doing okay?_ Armitage means to ask, and what he says is “I love you, Kylo.”

Kylo groans, clenches Armitage’s hand tightly in his own, his other hand pulling at his own hair. “You feel so good in me,” he breathes. “I’m so glad it’s you, Armitage. I’m so glad we’re here.”

“Yes, love, yes,” Armitage says, pushing forward into him again, reaching forward and coiling his hand loosely around Kylo’s cock. “I’m here. I’m here, Kylo.”

“I’m so glad it’s now,” Kylo says, and his eyes are wet. “It couldn’t have been any other time, it’s so—it’s so good for me, Armitage, is it good for you?”

“It’s perfect,” Armitage breathes, and it is. Shockingly, heartbreakingly, perfect. He thrusts into Kylo, and Kylo tilts his hips to meet his thrusts, and he can feel Kylo’s cock slowly hardening in his hand, and Kylo is gasping underneath him and Armitage feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes but it doesn’t matter, he’s so close, he is so fucking _close_ —

His orgasm starts from his toes as they curl and press into the bed, darts up his legs and then back down from the base of his neck through his spine, satellites and stars colliding in his pelvis, the actual climax roiling up from somewhere deep inside him and shattering him into a shower of meteors that cascade down over Kylo’s body. He thinks he screams Kylo’s name, but he doesn’t remember because he can’t hear anything, there is nothing except a roaring in his ears and a bone-weary exhaustion that hits him all at once, and Armitage goes limp over Kylo’s body, feeling his cock pulse inside Kylo like the beating of a heart, and his own heart is all he hears for a moment, for two, for three—

“I’ve got you,” Kylo says, wrapping his arms around Armitage. “Armitage, I’ve got you.”

“Holy fuck,” Armitage says softly. He shifts, and then reaches down and slowly extracts his softening dick from Kylo’s arse, wiping the worst of the mess from between Kylo’s legs and onto the sheets. “That was amazing.”

“Was I good?” Kylo asks.

Armitage looks at him, and Kylo ruins it by smirking.

Armitage flicks him in the forehead with his clean hand. “Of course you were good, you little shit.”

Kylo grins at him, kisses his forehead. “Seriously, though. That was amazing, I’ve never seen you come so hard.”

“It was so intense,” Armitage says. “I just—the entire thing. You in me, me in you.”

Kylo hasn’t stopped smiling. “I know,” he says. “It was so good. I’m so happy—can we do it again?”

“Of course we can,” Armitage says. “Not right yet, though.” As he says it, he hesitates, remembers. Looks down at Kylo’s crotch, at his half-hard cock. “Shit, I’m sorry, did you…?”

Kylo chuckles. “I got halfway there, but there’s no fucking way I can get it together to finish again, Armitage. I can’t focus for shit right now, I just…that was _so good_.”

“I’ll get you off again later, if you want?” Armitage offers.

“Am I staying the night?” Kylo asks.

Armitage hesitates, looks around his shitty apartment, with his clothes on the floor, and the empty milk crate he’s using as a nightstand, and there’s no way he and Kylo are both going to fit in the bed unless they’re pressed right up tight against each other. “Do you want to?”

“I’d love to,” Kylo says, pressing his lips against Armitage’s shoulder. “If you’ll have me.”

“Please stay,” Armitage says.

“Yes,” Kylo replies.

 

Kylo hunts around for his clothes while Armitage slips into the bathroom, cleans himself out as much as he can. There’s so much of it—so much of _Kylo_ —inside him that he knows he hasn’t got it all, and he shudders a little thinking of what this is going to mean for the upcoming—days, weeks, months as they learn each other again. Wonders if he should invest in a better plug so that he can just—plug himself between fucks rather than having to worry about Kylo’s come sliding out of his arse and down his thigh at an inopportune time.

(Wonders if Kylo will like it—and realizes that he can just ask, and Kylo will tell him, and whatever the result is, it’s going to be just fine.)

“Hey,” Kylo says a few minutes later. He’s dressed again, underwear and undone jeans, and he’s holding one of Armitage’s sweaters in his hand. Light blue, this time. “Your other sweater had—stuff on it, so I found you this one. It was on the floor, but it smells alright.”

“Thank you,” Armitage says. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

“I’m okay,” Kylo says. “Just starving.”

“You should at least piss,” Armitage says, before hauling his sweater over his head. “You were in me bare, it’s really best practice to piss after.” He pulls out a fresh pair of underwear, tugs them up over his arse, and pulls on a set of black skinny jeans. “Then we can eat,” he says. “If you like.” He bites his lip. “I made—was making—shepherd’s pie before you got here. I can get Bala-Tik to warm some up for us?”

“That’d be fucking great,” Kylo says. “Sounds delicious, and I miss your cooking.”

Armitage chuckles. He feels—bone-tired, but not weary at all. Just—pleasantly exhausted, and overall satisfied.

On his way down the stairs, he slips his hand into Kylo’s, and Kylo squeezes his hand tightly.

It feels nice, and Armitage is sure he’s grinning like an idiot, and he doesn’t even care.

He rubs his left thumb up against the ring.

He has Kylo now.

(He didn’t think he’d ever have this again.)

 

“You two done fucking?” Bala-Tik asks when they get downstairs.

Kylo curses under his breath, flushes bright red.

“You could have turned the game up if you didn’t like it,” Armitage says without malice.

“You know this piece of shit goes all to static when I turn it up past halfway.” Bala-Tik swings his feet, knocks his heels against the bar. “The owner of this dump should probably budget for a new TV.” He reaches up to run his hand through his hair and then scowls, flicks a piece of something out of his hand and looks up at the ceiling. “And maybe some ceiling repair, seeing as somebody is fucking the detritus out of the joists.”

“I’ll think about it,” Armitage says. He steps up on the bottom rung of one of the stools, leans over the bar to grab some clean glasses. Pours them each a pint, and then a third one for Bala-Tik. “Cheers,” he says, and he turns back to Kylo, offers him a glass.

Kylo is staring at him.

“What?” Armitage asks.

“You _own_ this piece of shit?”

“I told you already,” Armitage says. “Months ago.” He flicks his hand in the general direction of the rest of the bar. “’Now that the inheritance is gone, all I have is what you see here’, etc, so forth.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Kylo says, looking around as though he’s seeing the place with new eyes. “Like, the entire thing?”

“He’s a terrible fucking boss,” Bala-Tik mutters. “Look at how outdated this fucking TV is.”

Kylo’s still gazing around in wonder. “Honestly?”

“Why,” Armitage drawls. “You want a job?”

 

They’re halfway through the meal when Kylo makes a face, shifts in his seat.

Armitage lets him fidget for a bit before putting his hand over Kylo’s, shifting his thigh so that it’s pressed against Kylo’s.

“It’s fine,” he says softly. “It’s not as bad as it feels, and nobody knows.”

“This is so uncomfortable,” Kylo mutters. “How aren’t you suffering? I, uh…in you, just the same as you did in me…”

“I went to the bathroom before we came down,” Armitage says. “As you’ll recall, I suggested you do the same.”

“I didn’t have to…oh,” Kylo says.

“Yes,” Armitage says. “Oh.” He squeezes Kylo’s hand, and then takes another forkful of his shepherd’s pie. It tastes goddamn fucking good.

“I know I said I’d stay over,” Kylo says.

“…yeah?”

“But I gotta duck home first,” Kylo admits.

“Oh?”

Kylo reaches over, taps his index finger against Armitage’s ring. “This is killing me,” he says softly. “I gotta go back and get mine, Armitage.”

Armitage smiles, leans against Kylo. “Want some company for your walk?”

“Always,” Kylo says. He leans in close to Armitage, presses his lips against Armitage’s forehead, and then scowls. “Bathroom first, though.”

“Sure,” Armitage says. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

“I know,” Kylo says. “I love you, Armitage.”

Armitage doesn’t even hesitate. “I love you too, Kylo.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEX ACTS  
> The following sex acts take place in this chapter:  
> \- making out  
> \- edging  
> \- discussion of toys, no actual toy useage  
> \- oral sex, Kylo receiving  
> \- anal fingering, Kylo receiving  
> \- masturbation, Armitage for Kylo  
> \- not-quite-come-swapping, but there's some comments re: taste  
> \- anal fingering, Armitage receiving  
> \- intercourse without barriers, Kylo as inserter/Armitage as insertee  
> \- some virgin kink talk  
> \- some giggling over the outcome of not using barriers; nobody is offended and Armitage is long-suffering  
> \- actually there's rather a lot of discussion of come in this chapter, I don't even know if that's typical of this story or not anymore  
> \- rimming, Kylo on Armitage  
> \- intercourse without barriers, Armitage as inserter/Kylo as insertee  
> \- indication that sound carries and Bala-Tik is at least partially aware of what transpired
> 
>  
> 
> END NOTES:
> 
> IT'S CALLED /DOLLARS/ TO /DONUTS/ BECAUSE IT STARTED OFF WITH AN /INHERITANCE/ AND IT ENDED WITH /UNPROTECTED ANAL SEX/ AND A GLAZED DONUT JOKE thank you for coming to my ted talk I'm so sorry it took me 170k+ in order to have my title make sense
> 
> You'll note that I updated the chapter count again. It's because there's a short epilogue coming in the next day or so here.
> 
> [Today's blog entry talks about today's chapter!](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/08/04/dtd-chapter-twenty-three-breakdown/) The next (last?) blog entry for the series, which will go up with the epilogue, will discuss the story as a whole--so if you have burning questions, you should hit me up in the comments or on tumblr or twitter or something and let me know what you're wondering, and then I'll blog you a blog.


	24. five times armitage hux told the truth, and one time he lied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five truths and a lie, courtesy of one Armitage Hux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to deadsy, for betaing, and to valda, for copyediting.
> 
> Thank you to Star, who frequently listened to me flail.
> 
> Thank you to all of you, who read and left kudos, and commented, and made art and other contributions, and who talked to me about the fic and messaged me on twitter or tumblr, and honestly, just.
> 
> My heart is so full. Thank you.

_One Truth_

Armitage unlocks Kylo’s apartment, steps inside and slips off his shoes, and then just—stands there. Closes his eyes, leans back against the wall. It smells like Kylo in here—the lemon-scented cleaner that he uses on the kitchen, and the weird candles he burns whenever he meditates, and it’s just—everything is overwhelming right now, completely overwhelming, and Armitage feels raw and wounded and oversensitive and—

“Babe,” Kylo says, voice low and right next to Armitage’s ear. “I didn’t expect you, how was it?” His big hands go around Armitage’s waist, and he nuzzles gently into Armitage’s neck.

_It was okay it was okay it was okay it was okay IT WAS OKAY IT WAS OKAY IT WAS_

“Shite,” Armitage says, leaning forward into Kylo, hooking his fingers into Kylo’s belt loops. His breathing catches, and he presses his mouth against Kylo’s shoulder to stifle it. “I fucking hate it, Kylo, I hate it so much—we just…we just talk about awful stuff, all the time, and there’s no—there’s no end to the awful—it’s been months and I’m not even through with my fucking _father_ yet, much less everything else that’s fucked up, and I know I said I was gonna head back to my place after so you could study and I just—I came here by accident, I wasn’t even paying attention, I just…”

Kylo leans into him, presses him up against the wall, runs his hands down Armitage’s thighs and gently hoists him up, lets Armitage wrap his legs around Kylo’s waist.

“Shhh,” Kylo says. “I’m glad you came over, babe. I missed you.”

“It’s been twelve hours,” Armitage mutters.

“Sixteen,” Kylo corrects. “Do you wanna talk about it? The appointment?”

Armitage shakes his head. “Too raw.”

“Wanna go get ice cream?”

“…yeah.”

 

_A Second Truth_

“I am so sorry,” Kylo says. He won’t make eye contact with Armitage—just keeps staring morosely at his beer. “I know she’s a lot, I fucking know, I should have—I should have waited, I definitely should have waited.”

“I mean,” Armitage says. “I wasn’t really expecting to be called a dryshite in front of the entire arcade, no.” He’s leaning on the back wall behind the bar—there’s just the two of them here, and then whatever Bala-Tik has going in the back room that Armitage isn’t entirely certain he wants to be aware of at this particular moment.

“Ugh,” Kylo groans. “I shouldn’t have gone to piss, I swear I was only gone for five minutes.”

“Yeah, well,” Armitage says. He boosts himself up so that he’s sitting on the bar, swings his heels into the exact same scuffed up spot that Bala-Tik has been beating to shit with his own shoes since Armitage bought the fucking place. “I beat her top score in those five minutes, so I don’t really think she was at her best either.”

Kylo looks over at him. “Wait, you what?”

Armitage rolls his eyes. “You didn’t notice I beat her?”

“I mean…”

“Because I definitely won that fight,” Armitage says. “It was a decisive victory, and the end of her regime.”

“Holy shit,” Kylo breathes. “No wonder she was mad.”

Armitage stops swinging his feet. “She’ll get over it, though, right?”

“Probably not,” Kylo says. “To be quite honest about it.” He grins, wolfish. “She’s not as forgiving as I am.”

“Oh, shut it.”

 

_A Third Truth_

“Look, I’ll just…pay for it.”

“No. You won’t.”

“I absolutely will, it won’t be a big deal or anything, and it would be nice for you to—whoa, holy fuck, _Armitage_ —to—to—have some actual, like. Customers. Or something.”

“I’m perfectly happy with the bar as it is.”

“Nobody can see your paintings.”

“That’s fine.”

“It would be the world’s smallest advertising campaign.”

“No.”

“I just…okay. Yeah, okay. Sorry. I just. Let me help?”

“No, Kylo.”

“No, I mean, like—right now. Can I—?”

“Absolutely not, I’ll touch my cock when I feel like it. If you need to tap out, just take the ring off.”

“…I’m fine. It’s fine. I’m just—shit, Armitage, holy fuck. How are you so…how are you so composed? I’d have come three times already if it weren’t for this thing.”

“You keep talking to me about work, Kylo.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like to talk to me about something that isn’t work? And maybe fuck me a bit faster?”

 

_A Fourth Truth_

“Check it out,” Armitage says.

“Hmm?”

“My new piece is going up today. _Still Life with Glazed Donut._ Guess it came back from the framer’s.” He tips the phone in Kylo’s direction.

“Oh my god,” Kylo groans. He runs his hand back through his hair. His ears are red. “I can’t go back there, I’ll die.”

“It’s just food, Kylo,” Armitage teases. “Nothing obscene about food.”

“I will absolutely die,” Kylo says. His entire face is red now. “And also, I object to your food statement as well.”

“Do you now,” Armitage purrs. He turns toward Kylo and kisses his neck, runs his hand down Kylo’s chest and settles it on the crotch of Kylo’s yoga pants. “You don’t seem like you object that much.”

“No, see,” Kylo says. “That’s the objection. I shouldn’t be half-hard over food, that’s not a thing for me.”

“I think that’s more than half.”

“And I think that painting is more than food.”

“How dare,” Armitage says, swinging his leg over Kylo’s and settling himself in Kylo’s lap.

“Armitage,” Kylo says. “Admit that it’s not about food.”

“It’s not about food,” Armitage says blithely. “It’s about sex.”

“There,” Kylo says. “How hard was that?”

Armitage rolls his eyes. “So, are you so disgusted by my work that you’re cancelling our sleepover at my place tonight?”

Kylo rolls his hips, grinds up against Armitage’s arse. “Never disgusted,” he says, already a bit breathless. “Just can’t stop blushing. Oh, hey, did I—did I leave—my art history textbook over there?”

“Think it’s in the milk crate,” Armitage says, and then he tugs at the collar of Kylo’s shirt and carefully starts sucking a bruise into his shoulder. “Glad you’re not cancelling.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

_A Fifth Truth_

“—and she wants to know if we’ll both come by over Christmas break and I told her I’d think about it.”

“…there’s no fucking way I’m doing this,” Armitage says flatly.

Kylo looks at him, aghast. “Armitage, it’s my _mom_. Well, my mom’s wife, but she’s asking for my mom cuz my mom won’t ask for herself.”

“And your mom is my former district manager,” Armitage says. He swipes his rag across the counter even though the counter is already clean. “You know the last time I saw her? It was right after you came out as gay in front of the entire fucking coffeeshop—”

“There was only you and Poe and Rey there,” Kylo says.

“—and I absolutely fucking botched my presentation. Did I ever tell you that? It was a complete shitshow, easily the worst presentation I’ve ever given in my life, and she did that—that _thing_ with her face and she was so disappointed in me even though she pretended everything was fine, and I just—I can’t—”

“…you never told me that meeting went poorly,” Kylo says finally.

“Of course I didn’t,” Armitage snaps. “Why the fuck would I have admitted that to you, you’d just—you’d just destroyed every preconceived notion I ever had of you, you just…”

Kylo raises his eyebrow.

“…I thought you were straight,” Armitage finishes.

Kylo gapes at him.

“You smelled _nauseating_ ,” Armitage says defensively. “All the time.”

“It was just drugstore stuff,” Kylo says, like it doesn’t matter that he used to bathe in Axe. “I didn’t know any better.” He takes another sip of his pint. “Honestly, I don’t like this beer.”

Armitage leans over, sniffs at it. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Kylo. That’s how sours taste.”

Kylo scrunches up his face, and then looks back at his phone and sighs. “I’ll tell her not this year.”

Armitage bites his lip. “I didn’t say that.”

“You literally just said it.”

“…I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh?”

He closes his eyes. “If it’s important to you that we go to your place for Christmas…”

“You’ll consider it?” Kylo asks, voice bright.

“We can just go,” Armitage says, eyes still shut. “I’m gonna hate it, but I’ll go. If it’s important for you.”

(His eyes are still closed. The kiss comes as an absolute surprise.)

_And a Lie_

“Public, or private, Kylo?”

Kylo looks up at him blearily. His hair is in disarray from how he’s been pushing his hand through it, and there’s a smear of ink on his cheek. “What?”

“Do you prefer surprises in public, or private?”

“…private,” Kylo says. “Sometimes I react all…weird, if I don’t know what’s happening, and it fucks me up if other people are there.”

“Thank you,” Armitage says. He taps in a couple of notes on his phone. “Do you see yourself as more of a planner or a doer?”

“It’s complicated,” Kylo says. “Stuff makes me nervous, so, like—I try planning? But I mostly spin in circles a lot, I don’t do, like, that super effective thing you do with your lists and stuff. I just have, like, a shoebox full of six million times I tried to ask you out and failed. So, like. A planner. But a bad one. What’s the context?”

“Say there’s a birthday party. Would you rather be part of the planning for the event, or would you rather help out with whatever was needed on the day of?”

“Day of,” Kylo says. “People always need, like, chairs set up and tables moved around and stuff. Rey’s birthday isn’t for months, what’s up with the questions?”

“Ugh,” Armitage says. “What do you think?”

Kylo sighs, moves his textbook over and opens another one up. “I’ll just tell her to calm it down on the texting. Like, I’m glad you’re getting along now, but she’s being fucking weird.”

“It’s fine,” Armitage says, tapping a few more notes into his phone. “All kids go through that whole personality questionnaire phase. I’m just glad she’s not asking me, you know?”

“I wish she’d stop asking me,” Kylo grouses. “And it’s worse when it’s through you.”

Armitage shrugs, closes out of his wedding planning document, and opens up his text messages.

_Armitage: Told him you were texting another personality quiz. Extroversion and introversion or something like that. Questions about public vs private surprises, and being a planner vs being a doer. Figure it out._

_Armitage: Also find a quiz about flower languages or something, I want something nice to give him for the proposal, so I’ll have to ask him a bunch of flower-related questions._

_Rey: thanks I hate it_

_Armitage: Do you or do you not want to participate in building a custom pinball machine in the bar?_

_Rey:…_

_Rey: i want it so bad armie omg_

_Armitage: Then continue to cultivate your persona as ‘teen girl who likes personality quizzes and sends them to everyone’, and I’ll see what I can do._

_Armitage: Also, I’m pretending I didn’t hear that nickname._

_Armitage: Don’t repeat it._

“—over tonight?” Kylo asks.

“Sure,” Armitage says absently. “You’re welcome over if you like. There’s some kind of high stakes card game on, though, so I’m not likely to be upstairs until later.”

“Good thing we got you a new bed,” Kylo says. “Maybe I’ll break it in myself.”

“About that,” Armitage says. “I have some free time this afternoon.”

“Break in the bed early?” Kylo asks hopefully.

“Well,” Armitage says. “I think that depends on you.”

“Me?”

“You wanna get fucked here, in your bed, or you wanna walk all the way over to the bar, and then get fucked in my bed?”

Kylo leans back in his chair, spreads his legs. “My refractory period is _amazing_ ,” he says, in a shite imitation of Armitage’s own accent.

“And so?”

“Both is good,” Kylo says, grinning.

“Greedy,” Armitage says—but he’s watching Kylo’s hands as they undo the button on his jeans, slowly pull the zipper down to show off the underwear he’s wearing.

“Absolutely,” Kylo says. His underwear is bright red, skimpy, and likely doesn’t even cover his dick when it’s soft—which means it isn’t doing a damn thing right now.

“I love it,” Armitage breathes, hands skimming down the buttons of his own shirt. “Hands by your sides, love, let me finish undressing you.”

“Yes,” Kylo says. “Fuck yes, Armitage. Do it.”

“Whatever I want?” Armitage asks.

“Whatever you want,” Kylo confirms. “You can have it all.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it--we're done.
> 
> Dollars to Donuts is part of a series. I'm planning to do some one-shots in the verse, and another longfic, though it's going to be a bit before the longfic happens. (I have the general concept of it down, though!)
> 
> I'll probably do a tumblr post in the next week or two here that outlines what I'm expecting to do for future fanfic...I'm guessing it'll be one-shots from now till December, and then back to the Foxtrot verse early next year, but we'll see!
> 
> [There's one last blog entry over here](https://heyktula.wordpress.com/2018/08/06/dtd-epilogue-and-retrospective/), which serves as a bit of a retrospective. I doubt it's the last time I'll talk about the story--so if you have outstanding questions or anything, please feel free to send them over.
> 
> I'm on tumblr (less frequently), and twitter (more frequently), both as heyktula, and also on curious cat under the same name.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [heyktula](https://heyktula.tumblr.com)  
> twitter: [heyktula](https://twitter.com/heyktula)
> 
> UPDATE: Hello, there is art for this fic!!!
> 
> [Portrait of Hux in his Arkanis University shirt by Sparrowlicious!](http://sparrowlicious.tumblr.com/post/172390218579/i-wanted-to-try-out-a-new-color-pencil-but-then-i)
> 
> [Mutual pining and secret shower wanking by Sparrowlicious!](http://sparrowlicious.tumblr.com/post/172477024454/aaaand-another-one-for-dollars-to-donuts-by)
> 
> [Spoiler for the end of chapter five, by @wonchells! ](https://twitter.com/wonchells/status/982958274998747142)
> 
> [The Starkiller Project, by Jeusus!](http://jeusus.tumblr.com/post/173011872123/armitage-activates-it-the-room-is-suddenly-awash)
> 
> [Moodboard, by for_autumn_i_am!](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/173091616636/dollars-to-donuts-by-heyktula-kylo-just-wants-to)
> 
> [Portrait of Hux, by _pibi!](https://twitter.com/_pibi/status/988259028772970497)
> 
> [Spoiler for the middle of chapter ten, by Kiyara Sabel!](https://twitter.com/KiyaraSabel/status/995554290050609152)
> 
> [cooking!Hux, by tinynarwhals!](https://twitter.com/tinynarwhals/status/998968690220519424)
> 
> [The List, by armoredsuperheavy!](https://armoredsuperheavy.tumblr.com/post/175661240110/the-list-made-real-chapter-16-dollars-to)
> 
> [spoiler for the end of chapter 17, by tinynarwhals!](https://twitter.com/tinynarwhals/status/1017414078774403075)
> 
> [art from chapter 17, by huxjpeg!](https://twitter.com/huxjpeg/status/1017549597097496577)


End file.
